Cravings
by Freya Ishtar
Summary: One week has passed since the defeat of the Kanima, Jackson is missing and the alpha pack lurks in the shadows. Peter has come up with a plan for Derek to keep them at bay-but not for long- and it will require aid from Lydia, in a form that may be more than she's willing to give. -Intended Pairing: Derek/Lydia, but some Lydia/Peter-ness may occur-
1. Untrustworthy

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Teen Wolf_ or any affiliated characters. Story written & shared for entertainment purposes only, I make no profit, in any form, from the creation of this work.

* * *

**Chapter One**

Untrustworthy

She was proud of herself for not screaming when she awoke to find Peter Hale perched outside of her bedroom window. Admittedly, it had taken a few moments before Lydia convinced her sleepy brain that he was real and not simply an after image from one of the _profoundly disturbing_ nightmares he'd—correctly—predicted she might have. She did often wonder if she had the horrific dreams of a giant, red-eyed wolf tearing at her flesh because she'd truly been that traumatized, or because he'd planted the seed by making the suggestion.

While every fiber of her being shouted at her to rush over, throw open the window and knock him off the ledge, she reminded herself quickly that he wasn't human, and doubted that the fall would do very much damage to him; in fact, it might only make him mad. Even the most terrifying of nightmares paled in comparison to the thought of an angry Peter Hale in the waking world. She stumbled out of bed and padded over to the window, snatching up her curling iron as she passed the vanity table.

Lydia pulled back her wielding arm threateningly—one would think that after learning of the existence of werewolves, she could have taken the time to get an actual weapon, but this was the best she could do in a pinch—as she tugged open the window with the other.

"For a girl with such impeccable taste, your choice of sleepwear leaves a lot to be desired," he said in a silky whisper, his blue eyes playfully flitting over her long, covering pajama-set.

She lifted her chin defiantly and tightened her grip on the curling iron. "If I'd known you'd show up here, I'd have slept somewhere else," she responded with a false syrupy-sweetness. The only reason she was giving him a chance to speak was because he terrified her and she didn't like to think what he might do to get her attention if she chose to ignore him. "What do you want?"

"Oh, dear, sweet Lydia, I'm not here for _me_. I'm here to afford you an opportunity to help Derek."

She was at once confused, and put off, just enough that she lowered the makeshift weapon, her brow furrowing. "Derek?" She shook her head, giving him her best innocent, clueless look—never mind that Peter Hale was fully aware how very intelligent she truly was, and she well knew it. "Why would I want to help him?"

Peter feigned a gasp, but instantly dropped the surprised act with a tired roll of his eyes. "Because you owe him. He didn't _have_ to give you the chance to save Jackson."

Lydia forced her expression to remain neutral, although the mention of her ex-boyfriend made her want to wince. He'd not been seen since a week ago when he'd awakened as a werewolf; he had not even said goodbye. It stung, a lot, leaving that wound open, but not as much as it once might have. While she had been speaking truthfully that night, she did still love him, it had not been the romantic love she _should_ have felt for him when they'd been together. She cared for him so much, and she'd thought he was dying. What else could she have said, with what she believed might be the last words he would ever hear?

Whatever the case, she was positive that had it not been for her intervention, the thing he'd become—that awful Kanima—would have overtaken him entirely, and there would be no more Jackson. The Hales might not have been able to kill him, no matter how temporary that death had been, but Jackson would have been gone, all the same.

She didn't like it, but Peter was right.

"And of course," he went on smoothly, offering her a charming smile, "there's the issue of using him to bring me back."

Lydia, harshly snapped back into the moment, impatiently stomped a foot. "But wait, that isn't fair! You _made_ me do that!"

His eyebrows shot up. "Fair? Oh, c'mon. When is life _actually_ fair? You and I both know you feel at least a little guilty for being part of, well," he laughed softly and shrugged, "you know."

"Why should I feel guilty?" She'd paused before replying, barely a split-second, but it was enough.

"Because you're not nearly as heartless as you pretend to be, and everyone is starting to see that."

* * *

So, here she stood, waiting for the Hale men to arrive so Peter could explain exactly what it was he expected of her. Lydia frowned darkly, even as she reminded herself that she should not make such an unhappy expression—excessive frowning caused premature wrinkles. But, then, this was hardly an ideal situation, standing in this rundown, flashback-inducing, house after a rainstorm had abruptly started during her walk here.

She fought to keep her frown from deepening as she peeled off her drenched blouse and began wringing it out. Looking down at herself, she sighed. Her camisole was soaked, as well, but _that_ she was not about to remove. The idea of being in this dump in anything _less _than her skirt and cami was very unappealing. . . . And, she crinkled the bridge of her perfect little nose in distaste, the damp air made the musty old wreck of a house smell _mustier._

* * *

The last thing Derek Hale had expected to see when he entered the burnt out remnants of his family's house was the little, strawberry blonde tyrant. He might have had some warning of her presence on any other day, but in a storm like this, the smell of rain washed away all other scents.

Well, that thought didn't ring entirely true. Lydia Martin standing in what had once been his living room, looking like a tiny and helpless drowned rat, was the last thing he expected to see. _What the hell . . . ? _His uncle hadn't mentioned anyone else being here when he'd asked to meet. _Peter, what are you up to now?_

"Ah, there she is," Peter's lowered voice was unexpectedly, unnervingly in Derek's ear. The crafty bastard had used the muffling effect of the weather—water to dull the sense of smell, the constant barrage of rain pattering everywhere to muffle hearing—to mask his presence.

Derek turned his head, looking at his uncle, but Peter's gaze was fixed on the petite redhead who had yet to notice them.

The older wolf continued in a whisper, "Huh. Perhaps this is just my observation as a male recently returned from the dead, but . . . that undershirt leaves _nothing _to the imagination."

With a flash of irritation, Derek realized the man was right. And that flash became brighter as he found he had to force himself to look away from the girl. "You're old enough to be her—"

"Young and devastatingly handsome uncle, I know." Peter swept past Derek, his arms wide in a welcoming gesture as he called out to Lydia, "Ah, so nice of you to accept our invitation."

Derek noticed that she gave a start at the first word Peter had spoken to her, yet now, as she turned those wide, hazel eyes on them, he could tell a wall had come up. He had no doubt that she was scared of his uncle, but she was refusing to let her fear show. That was the least of his concerns, however. Then again, so was the troubling fact that now that Peter had so _helpfully_ pointed out the issue of Lydia's attire, he couldn't _un-_notice how the damp white satin clung to her—whether he liked to consider it or not; it was probably just a sign that he'd gone too long suppressing himself. No, what bothered him the most was that the former alpha had just made it sound as though they'd made the decision, as a unit, to have her come here when Derek hadn't the faintest idea what this was about, either.

She gathered herself quickly as she shook out her blouse and whipped it up to drape over her shoulders. "Anything to get _you_ out of my life," she said airily to Peter with a forced smile. "What do you want?"

"Ah, well, I'm certain you noticed the symbol on the door when you arrived."

The girl folded her arms beneath her breasts—oblivious to the effort the males had to muster to keep their gazes from drifting to that section of her body. "So? What about it?"

"Hold on." Derek interrupted with a shake of his head, but before he could continue, something had to be done about Lydia's . . . state of drenched undress. He frowned darkly; it was taking a _lot _of patience to not growl at his uncle. He didn't want to make Lydia any more frightened than she probably already was. Not just for her sake, either, but because it had unsettled him the last time she'd turned her big, hazel eyes on him, and if they were widened in fear, it might heighten that undesirable effect.

He shrugged out of his leather jacket and stepped towards her slowly, holding it up so that she might understand his intention.

Lydia swung her gaze toward the younger male, eyeing him warily—odd, they were werewolves, and yet they were watching her as though _she_ was the strange creature—but allowed him to place the jacket backwards over her.

He turned on a heel, mindful that he was placing himself almost directly between Lydia and Peter; he didn't trust his uncle as far as he could throw a Buick. The man had already manipulated her once, thus, having Lydia involved made him trust Peter even less.

"What's going on?"

Giving a sigh, Peter recounted his late night discussion with the girl. Though he knew that she couldn't see the look on Derek's face, he did find it oddly amusing to watch his nephew's expression slowly darken as he listened.

"No," Derek said simply. "Even if I believed that you're on my side, there's nothing she can do to help."

"Excuse me!" Lydia stomped a tiny, fashionably heeled—though, now caked with mud and leaves—foot. "I am standing right here. Somebody talk to me!"

It occurred to him that he'd only spoken to the girl twice before; the first time to beg her not to revive Peter, the second to explain what was happening to Jackson. She was quickly being pulled into a world where she did not belong.

Maybe she still had a chance to be normal.

"Lydia, go home," Derek said decisively over his shoulder.

Anger flickered in her eyes as she stared back at him. She may have been through a _lot_ recently, but no matter how much she had changed, one thing remained constant—_no one_ told Lydia Martin what to do! "I am not going anywhere until someone tells me what's going on," she replied in an icy murmur.

The alpha hung his head—Peter had really enforced upon her the notion that everyone had purposefully kept her in the dark for a quite a long while, now. A fact she was clearly unhappy about. Derek ignored that Peter's look of amusement only grew.

For someone who insisted they were family and must work together, Peter sure seemed to take joy from his last living relative's discomfort.

"Fine." Derek turned to face her, but stayed in place, certain that he wanted to keep Peter as far from her as possible, though he did not entirely understand why. He explained carefully about the alpha pack's arrival—though they'd not made any moves as of yet—but concluded quickly enough, "I have no idea what _he_ thinks you can do to help the situation."

Her gaze roamed the charred room briefly as she pursed her lips before demanding, "Well, then, let's just ask him."

"No. It's too dangerous for you, and you don't need to be involved. Go home, Lydia."

Lydia's eyebrows shot up as she set her jaw. "Okay. Scott's a werewolf, Allison's a hunter, so I get all that, but what about Stiles? Hmm? He's not super, or special, but he's involved in this, so why not me?"

Damn, she had a good point. Derek's face fell and he could not immediately offer a response. Worse, he had become too accustomed to being in the company of his wolves. He was not prepared to argue with someone who was not intimidated by his place as alpha.

Peter stepped around Derek, but the girl backpedaled a step and he instantly halted his advance. "I think you matter to this more than anyone else, actually. Your immunity is completely unheard of. In our world, there's only one other thing, a tree—mountain ash, to be specific—that has the ability to render the supernatural powerless. I had thought that perhaps if we—"

"Wait, so my physiology has a property in common with that of a tree?"

Derek and Peter shared a glance as she, with barely a moment's thought, so easily pointed out something they'd not considered, though it should have been obvious.

"Well, yes," Peter said brightly. "Your blood somehow mimics the mountain ash. I believe adding one to the other would increase the effect and I have been thinking that we need a way to keep that pack out of Derek's territory . . . at least until he's strong enough to face them."

Lydia looked from one wolf to the other and back again before she managed to ask in a breathless whisper, "You want my _blood_?"


	2. Second Thoughts

**Chapter Two**

Second Thoughts

"Don't worry." The older wolf gave a light shrug and held up a hand, pinching thumb and forefinger together in the air. "It'll only take a tiny bit; a few drops at most."

"You are _insane_," Lydia hissed.

He merely lifted a brow and nodded. "Yes, but let's be fair; I've been to hell and back, twice. Who wouldn't be?"

Derek rolled his eyes before scowling—did his uncle really think she'd have agreed to that—and repeated what he'd said twice, already. "Go _home_, Lydia."

"Now, now, no need to get dramatic," Peter said gently. "It requires some of your blood, too, so that you and your pack can come and go as you please." He pointed to Lydia, "Her blood, your blood, mixed with some mountain ash. Simple blood ritual, old magick, I turned up during some research. We sprinkle the mixture along the boundary of your territory and viola."

"What part of that sounded like anything I would agree to?" Derek asked in a low voice.

"If I do," she ventured in a shaky voice, even while she lifted her chin and did her level-best to seem fearless, as she looked past him to meet Peter's gaze, "will you _really_ leave me alone after this?"

"I had thought that was implied clearly enough."

"No," Derek said sharply and took a step toward Lydia to slip a hand behind her neck.

Before she really knew what was happening, the alpha was dragging her through the house. When she found herself standing on the dilapidated porch, she pulled out of his grasp and frowned up at him.

"But, wait—" she immediately cut off her words, she had no idea what her protest was going to be, only that she wanted to make one. She wouldn't be here at all if she felt she had a choice, and she didn't like the idea of doing anything Peter Hale asked of her, so what could she truly have offered in the way of argument?

"You don't want any part of this," he said from between clenched teeth, as though he'd read her mind, his voice barely loud enough to be heard over the steadily-lightening rain that pattered the charred wooden awning.

"What I want is him out of my life, for-like-_ever_." She furrowed her brow in confusion as she went on. "I thought he was doing this for you?"

Derek's green eyes narrowed and he looked around briefly before pulling the door closed. Certainly, Peter could likely still hear them, but he just wanted not to deal with that man's presence for a moment. "That's what he _says, _what I don't know is why."

"Well," she cleared her throat and adopted an airy tone, "I don't care why. If you don't need his help, tell him and then . . . make him leave me alone."

He set his jaw—he wasn't sure he could _make_ his uncle do anything, in fact, he was just about positive no one could. "What I need isn't anyone's problem, but mine." He could feel her agitation spike, she was about to argue again, so he continued before she could get the first syllable out. "I don't know how to make him leave you alone, but I don't want this kind of help."

She forced a bright smile. "Hmph, I don't care what _you_ want. _I_ don't want to go crazy again! And if pricking a finger to give him a few drops of blood is all he's asking, then I'm going to do it and you can't stop me."

Taking a step back, he gritted his teeth and curled his hands into fists few times, trying desperately to hang onto his patience. He reminded himself instantly that he was glad Peter's bite hadn't changed her—Derek would have inherited her as part of his own pack and her nature would likely cause her to challenge him at every step, unaccepting of a station that was second to anyone. He had enough people from the outside challenging him, didn't he?

What was worse, he couldn't deny Peter's logic. He did need time, just enough to strengthen himself and his pack, or at least make a plan as for to how to deal with the alpha pack when they did finally show themselves. Derek didn't like the idea of forcing someone who should have nothing to do with any of this—no, that sort of compliance seemed a tactic for hunters.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Fine. If you really _want_ to help, then you're right, I _can't_ stop you. But what if I were to ask you something?"

Lydia gave a little, involuntary, jerk of her head—she'd been ready to fight against demands, tooth and nail, but being _asked_ was a different matter, and one she had not expected. "Maybe."

"Please, go home."

She opened her mouth to argue, but he was speaking again.

"I'm asking you to _think _about this. That's it. Go home, give yourself time. You don't owe me anything—Jackson _had_ to be stopped, plain and simple. If you decide you want to help because it's what _you_ want, without it being about Peter, then I won't fight you on it." He seriously doubted the likelihood of that.

Peter would just have to make do on whatever ridiculous concoction he was cooking up without her.

". . . Alright." She would prefer to have this all over with here and now, but she was given to think that werewolves' temper tantrums could get nasty, fast. If Derek was going to be so stubborn about this and Peter continued forcing the point, she might find herself alone in a room, in a burnt down house, in the middle of the woods, out of screaming distance, with two werewolves having hissy fits at each other.

He nodded over her shoulder, eyeing something beyond her.

Lydia followed his gaze to the path that led to the house—or, in this case, _from_ it—then turned back to look at him, but he was already retreating into grizzled, nearly-skeletal structure. The rain had lessened to a drizzle, and Derek closed the door; there was nothing for her to do but . . . go home and _think_.

_And shower_, she thought idly as she started her tromp home, through the woods. Definitely shower, mud and leaves just _so_ did not suit her.

* * *

"You realize, of course," Peter said smoothly, "she's probably going to just go home, wait—to give the illusion of time spent thinking it over—and then just come back and say yes, anyway."

Derek clenched his jaw and simply glanced around the room; he didn't really want to look at his uncle right now, or he might be tempted to tear the man's throat out, again. "Well, at least _I_ gave her a choice. What were you even thinking? Why didn't you tell me before just acting on this?"

Peter's blue eyes gleamed with a twisted sort of mirth. "And you would've agreed to it if I had?"

"No."

"Hence why I didn't tell you." The former alpha paused, his gaze flitted over his nephew and he gave a frown. "Aren't you missing something?"

* * *

Not until Lydia was climbing the steps to her house did she realize that she was still wearing Derek's jacket. She considered going back and returning it, but one look at herself made her rethink that, and she wasn't terribly eager to be around Peter again so soon.

She hurried into the house and jetted up the stairs before her mother could see her and question her horrifically unkempt state. Once in her bathroom, she locked the door, dropping the jacket on the floor. Her thoughts, fuzzy from weariness, kept skittering toward what had happened at the Hale house, but she forced them away, again. She didn't want to think about it. Derek clearly didn't want her help, but Peter was—literally—the stuff of her nightmares.

She peeled off her wet and rumpled attire before turning on the shower, as hot as she could stand it, and stepped into the tub. The water pouring over her felt especially cleansing and soothing after the last hour, nearly against her will, it cleared her head a bit. Her thoughts put themselves in order, and before she knew it, she was out of minutia to focus on.

Derek didn't want her help because it was being forced, it was a point of which she was perfectly aware. After all, she considered as she stared down at her own feet in the soapy water, Peter might be able to bully her, but he wasn't going to be able to force Derek into anything. . . . Even if he needed the help.

She was up to speed, now, she finally understood what everyone was going through and what everyone's place was. Certainly he had other people that _wanted_ to help him.

But then, Lydia frowned as she scrubbed at her hair, who was on his side? Well, there was Peter, who could likely be classified as deranged. Scott would aid him, right? Hmm, Scott seemed to spend more time pining over Allison and whining about not wanting to be part of Derek's pack than anything else. Allison had shut herself away from everyone, even Lydia, and might still blame Derek for her mother's death, so . . . no hope there, either. Stiles was pretty much wherever Scott was, and she didn't see what he could do on his own, anyway.

Even his own pack was reduced to only Isaac, and he was searching for his pack mates, never mind that Erica and Boyd had probably gone ahead with their plan to find a new pack after they'd fled from the Argents. Mr. Argent was too busy trying to find Gerard while he consoled his daughter, and struggling with his shifting allegiances probably wasn't making things any easier. Odd that a wounded old man could be so hard to find, though.

Jackson was . . . . Well, Jackson was Jackson, she wasn't certain he'd be much help even if he was still here.

She blinked slowly, and turned off the faucet to simply stand in steam for a few moments. Derek . . . didn't really have anyone, did he? Most of the people that could help him were gone, or too wrapped up in their own problems . . . . Or crazy.

Come to think of it—as she stood her in her nice, pretty bathroom with her peach-scented soap in her upscale house— he didn't have much of anything, at all. A burnt out house, an abandoned depot . . . heck, the poor guy looked like he didn't even have a razor most of the time. Clean clothes and a nice car seemed to be the only things in his favor, which was probably not a big help, given the circumstances. Hazel eyes narrowed, _Does that mean he keeps all of his clothes in his car? _

How did he even have money? What did he eat?

She groaned, throwing her head back as she pulled aside the shower curtain and stepped out of the tub. At first, she'd actually been relieved that Derek had so strongly declined Peter's form of help, she even tried to tell herself the alpha would find a way to get his uncle to leave her alone. But it was this time to think, time that he'd probably hoped she'd use to change her mind, that made her realize his situation was a lot more desperate than he would admit.

"Dammit," she grumbled softly as she started toweling off.

Why couldn't this have all happened a few months ago, when she'd still been effortlessly shallow?

Oh, well. It _was_ just a pricked finger and a few drops of blood. She'd wake up early tomorrow and drop his jacket off before school. Well, and give him the answer he probably wasn't expecting. Hopefully, she'd have spectacular timing and Peter would not be there.

* * *

"Derek?" Stiles said in a harsh whisper, his eyes wide as he turned away from Scott for a moment glance over at Lydia, sitting on the other side of the classroom.

"Dude, would you _not_ get us detention, again?" Scott asked in a huff, straining to not turn around in his seat. He was still stressed about Allison—she'd not been to school in a few days, claiming it a family mourning period—but the last thing he'd expected, which had snapped him back to reality, was to catch Derek's scent wafting off of Lydia as she'd come into school this morning.

Scott looked around quickly to assure himself that Stiles' outburst had gone unnoticed. "Yes, okay. She's got Derek's scent on her."

Slumping back in his seat, Stiles gave his friend a bewildered expression. "I'm in hell."

"Weren't you in hell before?"

Stiles frowned as he nodded slowly, "Yeah, but this is like a different level. Much closer to the painful, fiery, being whipped half-to-death by Satan hell. When she was with Jackson, well, Jackson's a total tool bag, I . . . felt like I could at least compete with him since she actually _knows_ I'm here, now."

"You mean, like, how she had _no clue _you existed since the third grade, 'til a few months ago?" Scott couldn't stop himself from pointing out the obvious.

His friend sputtered, "Pfft, exactly! But . . . Derek? I don't think I can compete with that."

Scott rolled his eyes at himself. He should have kept his mouth shut, but it had been such an odd thing to encounter that he had felt almost strangely obligated to mention it. As far as he knew, Derek and Lydia had no reason to be around each other . . . not that he didn't understand _how_ a girl could get a guy's scent on her, but that wasn't really the point. Now Stiles looked like he was _thinking_, and that was very rarely a good thing.

"Okay, okay," Stiles said in a rushed tone, sitting forward again to speak in Scott's ear. "Then . . . you are just going to have to go, find Derek, and . . . see if he smells like her!"

At this, Scott turned his head very slowly to look at Stiles over his shoulder.

"What?"

"You've got issues," the wolf said miserably, knowing he was going to do it, even if it was just to soothe his friend's nerves.

Stiles made another sputtering sound. "Thanks for that, Dr. Freud. What're you, new?"


	3. Misunderstood Morning

**Chapter Three**

Misunderstood Morning

Lydia jumped when the door of the Hale house swung open just as she'd raised a hand to knock. True, knocking shouldn't have been necessary, but what if he _lived_ here? She wasn't a fan of the idea of walking in on . . . whatever it was that werewolves did when they were alone. Even if he were an ordinary human, she didn't like the notion of walking in on a strange man by himself. He could be doing _anything_ in there.

Derek's brow furrowed as he looked down at her, uncertain of which surprised him more—finding her here so early in the morning or seeing that she carried his jacket carefully folded over her arm.

"You could've just given it to Scott," he said pointedly, knowing, without flicking his gaze any lower, that she was wearing heels—he didn't imagine trekking through the woods was ever an easy task for her. "You didn't have to come all the way here, again."

"Maybe not," she said brightly as she pushed his jacket against his chest and waited for him to grab it. "But I wasn't sure if you wanted anyone to know what Peter's been up to and I can't think of how else I would explain having it."

He took the jacket, unfolded it and slipped it on. "Thank you." She had a point, he didn't even know what his uncle was really up to.

"And I owe you an answer."

His expression became tense instantly and she got the impression that he was hoping she would have simply pretended that she was still taking time to think things over. "Yes."

Derek scowled as he echoed the word. ". . . Yes?"

Lydia rolled her eyes. "Yes, I'll help with this blood-thing."

Shoving his fists into his pockets, he heaved a loud sigh. "_No,_ Lydia. I thought I made myself perfectly clear. I don't want—"

"Oh, you _were_ perfectly clear. I'm not saying 'yes' because of Peter, and _that's_ what you asked me to think about."

The alpha gave a confused frown—her heartbeat was steady, her breathing level—the girl was telling the truth. "Then why?"

She shrugged, but lowered her gaze, refusing to meet his eyes as she said in a reasonable tone, "Because you need help."

When she finally looked up at him again, his expression said, quite clearly, that he wasn't certain he believed her. "Whatever," she huffed. "Just tell him that I've agreed to do this and let me know when it has to be done, but . . . _you_ come and tell me. I don't want to have to talk to _him_."

The porch fell silent and she became aware, instantly of an awkward tension between them.

"Well, um, I have to get to school now. I don't want to be late." She forced a small, cheery laugh at herself—a holdover from just a few months ago when she was still pretending to be a ditz who giggled at her own moments of faked stupidity—and turned on a heel to start across the porch.

Derek watched the small female for a moment as he considered that Peter wasn't _here _at the moment, and it would be quite an unpleasant surprise for her to cross paths with the man if he were headed to the house now. He'd never felt entirely certain of Peter's intentions towards her as it was. Frankly, he very much doubted his uncle would keep his word to stay away from her after the blood ritual was completed.

"Lydia, wait."

She halted and looked over her shoulder, arching a brow.

"I'll give you a ride."

He almost laughed at the startled expression she gave.

"Well," she said after collecting herself, "okay. But . . . drop me a few blocks away."

He merely nodded and led her around to the back of the house where he'd parked the car. The request made perfect sense if they wanted to avoid explaining the situation to Scott, and he did; at least until _they_ knew precisely what was going on. That boy had a knack for getting in the middle of things that should have nothing to do with him. He also didn't feel like admitting aloud to _anyone_ that he was grudgingly accepting Peter's help.

The drive through the woods was nearly as awkward as the moment on the porch had been. Lydia ventured something just to break the silence. "I still don't know what actually happened that night after Peter came back."

"You mean after you brought him back."

"That is not fair," she muttered, a wounded look flickered across her face, but almost-instantly that wall slammed into place, so that they might as well have been discussing something as impersonal as the weather.

"Fine," he said after a moment, attempting to remind himself that he could not possibly understand what it was like for her to have had a nutcase like his uncle stuck in her head.

He turned to look at her for a moment. Lydia always tried so hard to give the impression that she was a carefree ditz at best, and simply coldhearted at worst. The girl had proven that she _wasn't_ a ditz, leaving him to wonder just how much of the other stuff was an act.

Her eyes widened as she glanced from him to the windshield and back again. "Eyes on the road!"

Frowning, Derek turned his attention forward once more.

"So, about that night?" She prodded.

"You really don't remember?"

"Would I be asking if I did?" She said curtly. "I just remember bringing you to him . . . and then waking up in my bed, still wearing the dress from my party."

"I guess there wasn't much chance for you to ask about it when we were dealing with Jackson." He paused for a moment, giving her few seconds to cope with hearing the name if she so needed. "Well, you fainted, Peter left and eventually I got enough of my strength back that I was able to stand up. You were _still_ unconscious, so," he shrugged, "I brought you home."

Lydia's eyebrows shot up. "You mean like . . . ."

He offered another shrug, but this time his eyes were so solidly ahead of him that she thought he was intentionally avoiding glancing at her. "Like . . . carried you and had to slip in a window and put you in your bed. I went back to the house to pick up a trail, so I could follow Peter, but I was still weak from the wolfs bane. I passed out."

A silent moment passed and he shifted uncomfortably under the sudden weight of her stare. Derek had sort of been hoping she'd forgotten to question the rest of that night. He wasn't unaccustomed to being an object of female attention, and he was adept at using his looks and even a little charm when necessary to get what he wanted from the fairer sex. However, two things set this apart from those instances—she wasn't paying him _that_ sort of attention, and there wasn't anything he was trying to get from her.

"I see," was all she said before falling quiet for another long stretch.

He would have tried to guess what she might be thinking about, but, in truth, he was a little afraid to find out what went on in Lydia Martin's head.

"Can you stop here?"

His eyebrows drew together. "I know you wanted me to drop you off away from school, but—"

"No," she interrupted, a corner of her mouth curling upward, before she pointed toward the corner of the block they were coming up on. "I want to run in and get some coffee."

Once more he turned his head to look at her, but, after a shake of his head, merely rolled his eyes and pulled up outside the café she'd gestured toward.

While she was gone from the car, he refrained from considering the current situation. Like . . . how he'd come to play chauffer to the girl, or how they came to be sharing a secret. Well, _again_, if one counted that neither of them had been very forthcoming about Peter's resurrection. He couldn't imagine a more unlikely partnership, really.

When she returned, she was humming under her breath, but had stopped before she opened the passenger side door—as though she was embarrassed to be overheard, unaware that his werewolf hearing picked it up quite easily. She settled onto her seat, holding a tray with two coffees on it and a medium-sized paper bag.

"Meeting someone?" He asked idly as he started the car.

"No," she replied blankly and extracted one of the coffees to place it in the cup holder closest to him. She affected her best innocent-and-clueless look as she pried her own cup loose from the tray and took a sip.

Derek furrowed his brow as he pulled away from the curb. "What if I hate coffee?"

She rolled her eyes and said airily, "That's just stupid. _Nobody_ hates coffee."

He couldn't help hiding a grin at her certainty about such a ridiculous point.

She spent the last moments of the drive seemingly arranging something inside the bag on her lap.

The scents of warm bread, melted cheese and grilled ham combined with that of the coffee to waft about the interior of the car. Derek frowned as he felt his empty stomach rumble. He'd just have to stop somewhere and grab a bite after he dropped her off.

"Here's good," she said in that oh-so-Lydia cheerful tone as she took a smaller paper bag out of the one on her lap and set it on the dashboard.

He pulled into a spot that was a little less than two blocks from school and she climbed out, not even stopping to say thank you. The bag she'd left behind caught his eye.

"Lydia," he called as she was about to shut the door.

She turned back, peering into the vehicle with a quizzical expression.

Pointing to the bag, he said, "Aren't you forgetting your breakfast?"

A grin spread across her lips, making the skin beneath her hazel eyes crinkle—but it wasn't a look of mirth, it was a look as though she'd told a joke that he simply hadn't been smart enough to get. "No." She held up the original bag. "I have mine."

With that she closed the door and spun on a heel, with needless flair, to start off toward school.

Derek sat back for a moment, the mingling scents of freshly baked bread and hot coffee poking at him. He watched her disappear around the corner and went on eyeing the bag.

Maybe this was a spoiled girl like Lydia's way of saying _thank you_?

His stomach rumbled again. "You're welcome," he said with a smirk as he reached for the food.

* * *

Finishing off the last bite of her ham and cheese croissant, Lydia hid a frown behind her cup as she took a final sip of coffee. The moment the school had come into view, she spotted Scott McCall waiting on the steps. And she already knew what he was waiting for.

As soon as his eyes fell on her face, his expression became both hopeful and anxious. This was why she'd been avoiding him—and, by extension, Stiles—even though she accepted that they were, in fact, friends, now. Scott was just _so_ miserable and lost without at least seeing Allison that it was pathetic and almost painful to watch.

"No," she said firmly as she passed him to dump her cup and bag in the trash bin. "I haven't heard from her."

When she turned to face him, the boy was looking her over with wide eyes.

"What?" she snapped, in typical Queen-of-The-School fashion.

His nostrils flared, but he shook his head. "No, nothing, I'm just . . . disappointed."

Lydia pouted, but caught herself before she could offer words of comfort. Everyone was still aching over something or other from recent events, but when was the last time he'd asked her how she was handling things? Hell, Stiles was his best friend and she couldn't remember Scott _ever_ putting Stiles before himself for anything, while Stiles ran around endangering his very-human life for his best friend. But no, no! The world was _all_ about how Scott couldn't be with Allison, blah, blah, blah.

"Well, maybe it would be good for the both of you if you took the hint."

Scott thought he might be imagining things when her expression softened just a little.

"If she wants to talk to you, she will. I'm not a messenger."

Tossing her strawberry locks over her shoulder, Lydia turned and headed into school, oblivious to the bewildered look on the young wolf's face as he followed her inside.

How was he going to explain to Stiles that the girl of his dreams had just strolled into school carrying the scent of Derek Hale, of _all _people?


	4. Nonsensical

**Chapter Four**

Nonsensical

Scott shook his head at himself. Normally, he had no problem with barging into the Hale house—or the depot, or wherever it was that Derek was currently calling home—to demand information from him. He didn't always get it, but he did try. But _this_? This was different.

Approaching the alpha in an attempt to catch a scent off of him, without any idea of what his cover story was, left the boy feeling a bit awkward. It wasn't entirely his fault . . . Stiles was the idea-guy, and Stiles was so beside himself right now that he couldn't seem to form a coherent sentence. So, Scott had undertaken the task of coming up here after work to learn what he could.

Alone. On Derek's territory, as night crept across the sky.

When the burnt out old house came into view, Scott realized he needed to think fast. With the direction of the wind, Derek wouldn't pick up his scent before he reached the porch, but it would do nothing to dampen any sound he might make.

"What are you doing here, Scott?"

The boy nearly jumped out of his skin at the unexpected voice behind him

"Jesus, Derek!" Scott growled as he spun around, placing a hand against his own chest as he tried to force his racing heartbeat to slow its rhythm. "Can't you ever just walk up and say hi?"

Derek rolled his eyes. "Answer the question."

"Why do I need a reason to be here?"

"You never look for me unless you want something." Come to think of it, this kid never seemed to do _anything_ unless he could gain something from it.

Scott looked to be temporarily at a loss for what to say. It was not a new look for him, by any means. "I came to find out what's been going on."

His words weren't a lie, per se, because Scott had only said enough of his reason that he'd not reached the point of saying anything that was false. Things had been quiet—very quiet, unsettlingly quiet—the last few days, so to ask if anything was happening could be perfectly logical. Except that he'd cut the statement a little _too_ close . . . his pulse had started to pick up, which was especially noticeable after his heartbeat had just settled back into its usual pace.

Derek gave a lopsided frown, impatiently darting his gaze around the tree line. "You know that having the ability to tell when a person is lying doesn't make it any less obvious when _you_ lie."

. . . _Crap._ Scott's shoulders slumped. He tried to think his way out of this, but there was no real way around it, was there? His best friend was a basket case and Scott had promised him he'd retrieve whatever information he could. Perhaps he could be straightforward while omitting his direct reason.

He took a step, intent only on catching a whiff of Derek's scent, but Derek reflexively backpedaled. Scott grimaced—there was no way he could get close enough like this. No, he would have to do something unexpected . . . .

Derek was so surprised to find the younger wolf suddenly barreling the few steps toward him that, for a moment, he simply stood there and let it happen. He was honestly interested to see what the boy was trying to do.

The alpha got the wind knocked out of him at the impact, but remained on his feet. Growling low in his throat, he latched a hand around the back of Scott's neck and flung the pup through the air.

Scott hit a nearby tree full force and skittered down to the forest floor. He tried to get his bearings as he pulled himself to sit up and braced his back against the base of the tree. Shaking his head slowly, he held his hands up as he heard Derek approaching.

"Forget it, dude, it's cool." Scott might not exactly be afraid of Derek, but he was aware that his surrender had _nothing_ to do with fear, or lack thereof, and everything to do with the certain knowledge that the alpha_ could_ kick his ass.

"It's cool?" Derek echoed with raised eyebrows. "You just attacked me."

"Yeah, about that . . ." Scott blinked hard and gave his head another slow shake. Yep, he had definitely caught some of the tree to the back of his noggin when he'd connected. But he _did_ realize he could effortlessly ask the question now without giving away the source of the inquiry. It would all fall into place, and his stupidity would explain itself.

He hoped.

"Why do you have Lydia's scent on you?"

Derek's lips pressed together in a thin line as he nodded. _Now_ this idiocy made sense. Lydia must've had _his_ scent on her after returning his jacket and riding in his car that morning, so having her scent on him was a give-in.

"Because she was wearing my _jacket_," he explained simply.

"Why?"

Frowning, Derek grabbed Scott by the shoulders and hoisted him to his feet. "She was soaked from the rain and getting cold."

Scott just stared at the man for a few moments. That sounded like a perfectly innocent reason, except for one thing . . . . He didn't imagine that Derek had randomly passed by a drenched Lydia Martin wandering down the sidewalk, handed her his jacket and kept walking. Even if that had been the case, that wouldn't explain how Derek had the jacket back.

"Since when do you hang out with Lydia?"

If Scott didn't know any better, he'd have sworn that Derek's expression had just stiffened.

Derek recalled instantly the point Lydia had made about just this very thing earlier today. He didn't want this nosy omega knowing anything of this blood nonsense, he didn't want anyone knowing at least until he knew what was going on, himself.

"What goes on between Lydia and me isn't any of your business, Scott." That was certain to be misunderstood, he knew, but it was the only answer he could give that was neither a lie nor the truth.

He let his eyes turn red for emphasis as he went on, "We're _not_ pack, Scott, remember? _Nothing_ that I do is your business."

The crimson faded and Derek began striding away. His shoulders hunched and he growled under his breath, all but daring Scott to try attacking him again.

Even if he'd had a mind to, Scott wasn't the type to attack someone from behind. Sighing heavily, the boy hung his aching head and turned away to start through the forest, wondering how he was going to tell this to Stiles.

* * *

The entire world seemed to drain of color right before Stiles' eyes as he dropped his face down into his hands. "Oh, oh, _God_, no! This . . . it's worse than I thought."

"Dude, we don't _really_ know anything," Scott pointed out, attempting to be helpful.

"Yes," Stiles groaned pitifully. "Yes, we do!"

Scott squinted, idly looking around Stiles' room, as he tried to figure what the other boy saw in this that he'd missed. "We do?"

"Yeah." Lifting his head, Stiles stared at Scott for a long while before he offered his best friend the usual _you_ _poor, simple bastard_ look that Scott had seen from him so many times already. "It's not enough that he's got the car, and the . . . cool hair, or that stupid," Stiles wiggled his fingers in front of his own face as he said, "constant brooding thing that he does, and the massively screwed up personal history. Girls love that crap—but _now_? After all of that . . . he's got chivalry!"

Stiles dropped his face into his hands once more and grumbled nonsensically to himself.

Rolling his eyes, Scott could only pat his friend on the shoulder. Of all the things Stiles could have gotten from Scott's encounter with Derek, it would be sort of fitting that it turned out to be the one thing that Scott would never have been able to guess.

* * *

"No," Derek said quietly as Peter started for the door.

His uncle paused, looking back over his shoulder. "No?"

The man had been in the house, apparently waiting for Derek, during his unexpected mini-scuffle with Scott. Peter'd spent a great deal of time explaining everything . . . _everything_ in grand, boring, detail, from the particulars of his research—where he'd found what, how long he'd been looking, who it was that discovered this use for blood— to which phase of the moon under which the rite to combine their blood with the mountain ash had to be performed in order to make the concoction potent enough. But still, Derek felt the man was holding something back.

Something important.

Now, Peter had proudly declared that he was going to traipse over to Lydia's house and share the information with her. . . . Only Derek couldn't let him, not after she'd asked him to keep Peter away from her.

"No," Derek repeated, getting up from tattered old couch, where he'd sat for God only knew how many hours as Peter had rambled on and on, and stepped up to his uncle. "I'll go tell her."

"Nonsense," the older wolf said in an unnervingly chipper tone. "Lydia adores me."

_The way a fly adores a spider._ It twisted Derek's stomach to think that this man, who was his own flesh and blood, was taking some perverse joy from the torments he'd inflicted on the girl. Gripping a hand around his uncle's throat, he dragged Peter away from the front door.

"You really don't get it. You terrify her and she wants nothing to do with you." Derek ignored the looks of mocking disbelief Peter affected during the specific words _terrify_ and _nothing._ "I'm guessing she wants even less than nothing to do with you popping up at her window in the middle of the night . . . again."

"Fine, fine," Peter said in an appeasing tone as he raised his hands in a sign of surrender. "Go, then. I'll just—"

"You'll just stay here and behave yourself," Derek interrupted sternly as he relinquished his hold.

"I was just about to say that," his uncle replied, forcing a serene and innocent smile.

With a tired roll of his eyes, Derek turned his back on Peter and stormed out of the old house, his head shaking.

A slow grin curved the corners of Peter Hale's mouth upward as he watched the door close behind his nephew. "_So _predictable," he whispered, once he was certain the young man was out of earshot.

"It's a wonder how I am the _only_ one to ever see your moves before you make them, Derek."

* * *

The window creaked as Derek eased it open, bringing a scowl to his face. This would be much easier if there were any explainable reason for him to be associating with Lydia Martin. It would also be easier had his uncle not spent half the night boring him to tears with minutia.

And it probably hadn't helped the situation that he'd had to be so cryptic and adversarial with Scott earlier—considering how tangled up things had become in Beacon Hills as of late, that meant that within a day or two everyone he'd ever met was likely to know that he'd been spending time in Lydia's company for reasons he couldn't explain. _Perfect._

Damn, that kid was a pain in the ass.

Still, it would be a nice change if he could have simply strolled up to the front door in broad daylight and rang the bell. However, even were he to attempt that markedly un-Derek-like approach, he doubted her mother would be terribly thrilled to see a man once accused of murder on her doorstep, let alone overhear any of the conversation he would have with the woman's daughter.

Peering inside, he could easily make out the vaguely person-shaped lump on the bed, even without the locks of red hair spilling over the edge.

"Lydia," he whispered loudly.

After a moment, there was no response. He frowned bleakly. His head poked through her window was really as far into her room as he was comfortable venturing.

He decided to try again. "Lydia."

Still, nothing.

With a heavy sigh, he reluctantly crawled through the window and inched over to the bed. Now that he was close, he tried calling her name once more, but still she didn't stir.

That didn't seem right. He could hear the soft sound of her breathing, but was it normal that she wasn't moving? Perhaps she was a deep sleeper? Whatever, if he didn't wake her, then he'd have crept into a girl's room in the dead of night like a crazy stalker for nothing.

He delicately pulled the quilt down a little, just enough that he could see her face and shoulders clearly. "Lydia."

The girl frowned lightly in her sleep, but offered no more response than that.

Giving an exasperated sigh, Derek grabbed her by the shoulder and shook her gently. "Lydia, wake up."

She rolled over suddenly, trapping his hand beneath her.

The alpha froze instantly. After a second or two he tried to tug his hand out from under her, but . . . it was funny how people could shift around so easily in their sleep. The part of her his hand seemed to be stuck beneath now was soft, and fleshy . . . and certainly_ not_ a shoulder. As soon as he realized this, he stopped moving. He would have to wait for her to turn over again. Why on earth was she _still_sleeping, anyway?

He frowned, his gaze flicking helplessly about the room, when his attention landed on a small orange bottle on her night table. Arching a brow, he reached for it with his free hand.

His wolf senses allowed him to read the label easily in the dark.". . . Prescription sleep aid?"

He looked from the bottle in his hand, to the girl, and back again. "Great."


	5. Reluctant Connection

**Author's Note:** Yes, Lydia's mother is only addressed as 'Mrs. Martin'. Trust me, I checked, no first name is given for the character in the show's IMDB listing, and I'm not comfortable assigning a name to a character from something that is currently on-going, as the canon may reveal a name for them in the future.

* * *

**Chapter Five**

Reluctant Connection

Fortunately, by the time Lydia woke up, she had shifted again so that Derek's fingers rested beneath a much more innocent area. _Un_fortunately, a few hours had passed, leaving her to find a sleeping Derek Hale seated on the floor beside the bed, his back against her night table and one arm up on the bed at an almost-awkward angle.

She gave a sleepy, confused frown and raised up on her elbows to stare at his hand. How odd. The girl couldn't help noticing that his fingers were long, and actually kind of perfect. Perhaps, if he'd been born into another life, he could have been a pianist. Her gaze followed the line of his arm, past his shoulder and up to his face. He looked so peaceful—so not-Derek-Hale—right now. When he wasn't angry or scowling, or brooding . . . his face was actually kind of perfect, too.

Lydia forced a gulp down her throat and looked away.

Her mouth shifted side-to-side as she considered what he was doing here, but then it immediately became obvious, even before she noticed her prescription bottle not far from him. He must've come in to speak to her about Peter's blood thing. He'd probably seen the medication, realized she wouldn't be up for a while and simply sat down. She didn't even like those pills, really, but she'd just wanted one night of dreamless—or, in her case, nightmare-less—sleep.

She brought her gaze back to his hand and simply stared at it for a moment. It had been a while since she'd had a guy in her room, circumstance notwithstanding. Tentatively reaching out, she brushed her fingers against his, just barely, before quickly pulling away.

Strange that she should think on it now, but she'd never been one accustomed to having her hand held. Jackson, and all of her boyfriends before him, in fact, had been more than happy to throw their status as Lydia Martin's Boyfriend in everyone's face with over-the-top public displays of affection, but holding hands had never seemed big on their to-do lists. As a result, the simple, normally _so_ over-done, act of touching someone's hand seemed disproportionately intimate to her.

Allison had held Scott's hand all the time, and as much as she hated to admit it, she'd been jealous. Not of Allison, of course, but of that bond they'd shared. Lydia was a stranger to the sort of connection those two had. Frowning, she pushed the thought away and glanced at her clock.

It was barely five AM and the sun was just beginning to rise, brightening her darkened room ever so slightly with dim, pre-dawn light. She turned her gaze to the man asleep beside her bed once more.

Just as a moment ago, she was struck again by the thought that he looked peaceful. _Huh_, perhaps it was such a peculiar observation because she wasn't certain that Derek knew what peace felt like. And like this, it really _was_ obvious that he was . . . .

She bit her lip and once more looked away from him, feeling as though she could really do without a reminder that she was starting to think of him as good looking. Whatever, it wasn't like he was here on a social visit.

Shaking her head, she climbed out of bed and sat on her knees before him. "Derek," she said quietly. "Wake up."

There wasn't even a flutter of eyelashes, leaving her to wonder when it was that he'd last slept.

With a sigh, she put her hands on his shoulders and shook him gently. "Derek."

A short scream tore from her lips as his suddenly-clawed hand latched around her throat.

Maintaining his grip, he shoved her backward. Crimson eyes snapped open to glare down at the girl pinned to the floor.

Derek wasn't aware he'd even woken up until he was on his knees, leaning over her. Those hazel eyes stared up at him, wide with shock and instant, frightened tears.

His fingers loosened immediately and something inside of him clenched painfully at the way she stared up at him so helplessly. The flare of red faded, but just as soon as it did, he heard a shuffling from down the hall, followed by a door opening.

"Lydia?" A female voice, threaded with concern, called out.

"My mother!" Lydia whispered frantically.

His face blanched as a bizarre sort of disbelief settled over him. Of all the things he'd had to dread as of late, he'd never have imagined that being caught in Lydia Martin's room, in the wee hours of the morning, by her mother—with Lydia pinned beneath him, no less—would be one of them.

Lydia nodded toward a door. "Go, hide in my bathroom, quick!"

In the blink of an eye, he was across the room. She looked over to find him disappearing behind the bathroom door just as the one that led to the hallway opened.

Mrs. Martin blinked in confusion at the sight of her daughter on the floor. She opened her mouth to ask, but spotted the orange bottle. Those pills were supposed to be helping her daughter sleep—the poor thing was still having bad dreams thanks to whatever had happened to her when she'd been missing—but the woman was certain the medication was a problem waiting to happen.

Shaking her head, she hurried to Lydia's side and helped the girl to sit up. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, I just . . . fell out of bed. I must've been having a nightmare. It's nothing."

"It's_ not _nothing," Mrs. Martin picked up the bottle. "Maybe you need a different prescription."

"I said it's nothing," Lydia repeated firmly, pushing out of her mother's hands to stand up. "I just fell out of bed, I'm sorry if I worried you."

Frowning, Mrs. Martin stood, as well, and set the bottle on the night table. "Okay, fine. I should be getting ready for work, soon, anyway. I'll make an appointment with your doctor."

"I don't need it," the girl replied in an airy tone as she stepped around her mother and got back into bed. "People fall out of beds all the time."

Her mother nodded, pursing her lips. Of course they did, but then _people_ hadn't been through what Lydia had—the attack, the fugue state, the sleepwalking—but she knew that if she pushed the point, Lydia would fight it even more.

"For my sake, at least?"

Lydia sighed as she pulled her covers up and looked at her mother. She couldn't really tell the woman not to worry about her, now could she? And, _oh_, if Mom had any idea of what was really going on . . . .

"Fine," the girl replied, at last, with a forced smile. "Now, if you don't mind, I still have a few hours before school."

Mrs. Martin returned the smile, with just as much lack of sincerity, and a very sincere dose of concern. "Sure."

Her mother slipped out of the room and quietly pulled the door closed behind her.

After a moment, Derek poked his head out of the bathroom.

_That's right, werewolf hearing_, she thought. She should have known that she wouldn't need to tell him when the coast was clear. But still, this was not an ideal situation, in the least—what if that woman decided to come back in? Her mother seemed to have no understanding of a girl's need for privacy. Lydia scurried out of bed, hurried to the door and turned the lock as quietly as she could.

Derek couldn't help an amused smirk, speaking quietly as he stepped into the room. "I thought you were going back to sleep."

She shot him a withering look. "I'm wide awake now, thanks to _someone _lunging at me."

His smirk died almost instantly. "I'm sorry. You caught me by surprise."

"Okay, so—"

Suddenly his hand was covering her mouth. He pressed a finger to his own lips and nodded toward the door in explanation.

A second later, she heard her mother leaving the master bedroom. They listened carefully as footsteps traversed the hallway, passed her room, and continued on, ending with the opening and closing of another door.

Lydia leaned back, putting enough distance between her face and Derek's fingers that she could whisper unimpeded. "It's okay, that's the main bathroom, she's about to take a shower. She'll be in there for a while."

He gave a sharp nod as he let his hand drop. "You know why I'm here?"

The frown that tugged at her lips said she thought he was aware that she wasn't stupid. "You've got news from your uncle."

Again, he nodded. Looking around, he gestured toward a corner of the bed. "Can I sit?"

Her gaze flitted over him. Once, twice, before she asked, "Are you dirty?"

"No," he answered with a bit of a sneer. Was that some sort of flea-ridden-werewolf joke that he didn't get?

"Then go ahead."

He sat down carefully, as though he thought he'd damage her bed, and leaned forward a bit, propping his elbows on his knees, so that he was looking up at her. She looked so small, standing there in her very un-Lydia-seeming pink cotton pajama set. Then again, considering that the girl had occasional nightly visits from werewolves, he couldn't say he was surprised by her conservative choice in sleepwear. Her long, strawberry-blonde hair was disheveled, and her eyes looked enormous as she tipped her head down to meet his gaze.

No teeth, or claws, or ability to heal, just her immunity. She _was_ small, and she _was_ sort of helpless in his world.

And, seeing her in this unguarded moment, looking this way that she probably never let _anyone_ see, he realized she was kind of adorable.

_Adorable . . . ?_ Derek shook his head, clearing his throat. He'd unintentionally fallen silent as he'd been clearly overcome with a moment of sheer stupidity. "Peter says that it's a simple rite, but it is specific. It has to be performed on the night of a waxing crescent moon."

"Waxing, as in strengthening?"

"Exactly; he said it's intended to make the blood and mountain ash more potent, giving it more power against those that try to cross the boundary."

Pursing her lips, Lydia's eyes rolled up toward the ceiling as she considered this. "Well . . . alright. When is the next waxing crescent?"

"Next week. Actually, Thursday, so one week from today."

"What else?"

He shrugged and then sat straight, folding his arms across his chest. "He said that we . . ." he frowned and cast a glance about the room, "join our blood, then add it to the mountain ash. After that, just like he said, we sprinkle it along the boundary of my territory."

She held up a hand. "Join our blood? What _exactly_ does that mean?"

Derek shook his head slowly—this was the same thing that he'd considered a sticking point. "I don't know. That he wouldn't tell me."

"You could have made him tell you, couldn't you?"

He let it go without saying that having already died once seemed to take the fear out of dying for Peter. And extracting the information through other means, like torture, was a hunter's tactic. He refused to lower himself to that sort of strategy on principle. He might be able to bully him with the _anticipation _of pain, but he didn't imagine that would get him very far, either.

"He's keeping too many things to himself. For every detail I might be able to threaten out of him, he's probably hiding two more and it's not like I have much experience with being able to trust in my uncle's sincerity."

"But he's the one who figured out what to do for Jackson, right? I mean, didn't he do that to help you?"

The scowl_ everyone_ was accustomed to seeing on his face finally appeared. "Yes, but I'm still not sure why."

Lydia gave a shrug of her own, trying to approach this from an intellectual perspective, rather than the emotional, still-dreaded-saying-Peter-Hale's-name one. "Leaving your clearly valid distrust of him out of this, maybe it means just what it sounds like. Our blood has to be mixed together _before_ adding the mountain ash. It could be that we're just paranoid, because of _who_ we're dealing with."

She . . . had a point, Derek realized with a hint of reluctance. He doubted that this was the case, as he was sure she did, she was just playing devil's advocate—an oddly appropriate term, considering who they were discussing— but it _was_ possible.

"That's still another week away, though," she pointed out, steering the conversation back to the issue at hand. "What're you going to do if this alpha pack comes at you before then?"

What did she care? Again, he shook his head. "I'll have no choice but to face them. That's not really something you should be worrying about."

Hazel eyes narrowed. "Hmph. I'll worry about whatever I damned well please."

Of _course._ It had almost sounded as though he'd try to tell the girl what to do. "Fine," he said, holding up his hands. "I'll ask one more time. Lydia, are you _sure_ you want to do this?"

"I'm not changing my mind," she said in an airy tone as she squared her shoulders.

"Alright." There wasn't much he could think to say that might deter her. "Be at the house on Thursday at sundown."

He stood and crossed the room. Her voice, sounding uncharacteristically small and uncertain, stopped him as he reached the window.

"Can you get Peter to keep his word?"

Derek looked at her over his shoulder, but remained silent.

She elaborated, "To leave me alone after this."

He offered a small nod. "I'll do what I can."

Her expression was typical Lydia Martin blasé, but she had been giving off a tense vibe that eased, if only minutely, at his semi-assurance. She returned his nod and seemed to relax a little.

"And I _am_ sorry about earlier. I don't usually sleep that deeply."

Lydia's eyebrows inched upward. "Really?"

He shrugged as he checked out the window to be sure no one would see him leaving. It was still early enough that the neighborhood was quiet and deserted; still_ just_ dark enough to offer some cover from unwanted notice.

"I guess I just don't usually feel safe enough to."

And then he was gone.

A tiny, twitchy frown graced her lips as she considered his words. Eventually, she pushed the thought aside, certain she must've misunderstood his meaning.

It was probably just . . . being away from the areas where he normally felt threatened. After all, it was just silly to think he'd meant he felt safe _here_.

Even sillier to think he could have meant that he felt safe _with her_.

* * *

Not until Derek was making this way through the woods did he realize what he'd said. He couldn't possibly have meant that the way it had sounded, could he? He'd just spoken without thinking his words through. Of course, that was a little unsettling all on his own; he usually tried to be careful with the things he said.

Why on earth did he keep dropping his guard around her?


	6. Scowl-itis

**Chapter Six**

Scowl-itis

Lydia felt positively itchy; restless as she glanced up at the clock above the blackboard. If she didn't know better, she could almost swear the damned thing was starting to move backwards.

Thursday—the day she was supposed to return to the Hale house to participate in Peter's still very-mysterious blood ritual—had finally rolled around, and here she was, stuck in global studies.

Derek had said sunset, and that was still a few hours after school dismissal, but even so . . . . The sooner she got out of school, the sooner she could get home, the sooner she got home, the sooner those hours would pass and she'd be heading over to the house. She would get to see Derek.

The pen she'd been scratching aimlessly against the edge of her desk stopped instantly.

No, no that hadn't been what she'd meant. She'd only thought of him in context to completing this ritual that would get Peter out of her life once and for all. Yes, that had to be it.

Shaking her head, she took a deep breath and tried to focus on the rest of the lesson. It wasn't easy. In the back of her head, she was kept seeing that look that had flashed across Derek's face after he'd lunged at her. Once he'd come to his senses and realized what he was doing, his eyes were just so . . . _lost_.

Lydia blinked hard several times and pushed the image away. How it kept finding its way to the forefront of her thoughts was a mystery to her.

Although, the memory was a favorable distraction from the feel of certain classmates' gazes on her back. Scowling, she turned to glance over her shoulder. Scott was quick to avert his attention, but Stiles couldn't seem to look away without fumbling. The boy knocked his textbook off his desk, dropped his pen and was only able to offer a quick, sheepish grin before ducking out of her eye line to retrieve his fallen items.

She gave a tired roll of her eyes before facing forward again. The bell rang, _at last_, and she shuffled everything into her stylish mini backpack as she scooted out of her seat. Scott and Stiles would just have to keep those expressions—the ones that said they wanted to ask her a million questions, but had no idea what to _actually_ say—to themselves.

Those two had been acting more bizarre than usual, lately, anyway.

* * *

"Oh, God," Stiles squeaked miserably as he dropped his face down on his arm, his voice muffled against his t-shirt as he continued, "she's scowling. She never used to scowl. Derek must be contagious, like . . . scowl-itis, or scowl-fluenza, scowl-emia."

Scott blinked hard and gave his head a little shake. Mercifully, his friend had not made a peep about this issue in the last several days. He should have known the notion of that silence was too good to be true.

"Okay, _again_ . . . we don't know anything more than we did last week."

"Go talk to Derek again," Stiles said simply, like it was the most obvious, but also most important, task in the world.

Grabbing up his backpack as he stood up, Scott turned his face away for a moment to hide an eye-rolling scowl of his own. He hadn't heard from Allison, hadn't seen her in two weeks, didn't even know if she would return to school or transfer to a new one, yet Stiles was the one acting the tortured soul.

He wasn't even really in love with Lydia; this was just a glorified, stupidly prolonged crush.

Scott's shoulders sagged as he thought about that. Stiles had never been in love. What he felt for Lydia was the closest he had to it.

"Why don't you go talk to Derek, yourself, then?" He said after a beat.

Stiles pulled his head from his arm and sat back, looking at his friend as though the boy had just sprouted a second head. "Why? Because-because this is _Derek_ we're talking about. He is a werewolf, he's an_alpha, _and he knows that I'm head-over-my-own-two-_stupid_-heels in love with Lydia. If they are . . . dating," he repressed a shudder at the very thought of that, "or whatever, I don't know that he won't go all territorial and just rip my head off."

"Yeah," Scott wondered, just for a silly, split-second, if that might be more peaceful. "Nobody wants that."

Stiles nodded briefly, before catching the sarcasm beneath the wolf's words. He felt his face pull into a pinched, exasperated expression.

Clearly, scowling _was_ contagious.

* * *

There was still an hour left until sunset, as Lydia made her way through the woods, but she couldn't wait.

She'd wasted a little while with homework; however, with how quickly her mind processed things, even an attempt to do to the assignments slowly only pushed it to an hour and a half. The next half hour she spent touching up her nail polish and fussing with new hair styles—only to leave her strawberry locks loose down her back, anyway— and pouting at her own reflection.

Of course, there was the fact that she would be, once again, tromping through the woods, and probably sneaking home at some ungodly hour, seeing as she had no clue how long this ritual was supposed to take. In light of this, she'd also taken stock of her wardrobe. In her entire collection of shoes, there were only two pairs that seemed suitable—the sneakers she used for gym, or the more blatantly obvious choice, a pair of never-before-touched deep charcoal hiking boots. Clad in a black turtleneck and matching leggings, she had shoved her feet into the boots and slipped out the back door.

Now, as she approached the clearing and the Hale house came into view, she really wished this night was already over with and she could be home in bed, asleep.

A little sadden by the knowledge that she'd probably never have reason to see Derek Hale again.

Her footsteps came to a stuttering halt as she shook her head. Scratch that—_safe_ in the knowledge that she'd never have to deal with _Peter_ Hale again. Maybe in another life, she and Derek could have been friends, was all she meant. . . . Neither of them seemed to have too many of those, lately.

_Whatever_, she thought with a second, brisk, shake of her head, and continued through the muddy, overturned patches of grass and tangled tree roots toward the house.

She walked delicately up the stairs, always feeling that the creaking, charred wood might give away beneath her feet—the fact that werewolves and hunters tromped up and down these same steps seemingly every other day, notwithstanding. Pausing for a moment, she squared her shoulders, drew in a deep, steadying breath, and then crossed the porch.

As silly as it felt to knock before entering a house that was _supposed_ to be abandoned, she lightly banged the side of her fist against the door, just the same. It unexpectedly inched open a jar under that minimal impact, causing her to jump a little.

God, she was being ridiculous! She was nervous about participating in some obscure _blood_ ritual, at sunset, with a _werewolf_ . . . under the supervision of_ Peter Hale_. Perhaps, given those circumstances, she had the right to be a wreck that startled at every sound. But she didn't have to like it.

Or show it.

Clearing her throat, she pressed her palm against the door, opening it completely and stepped into the house. The bridge of her nose crinkled at the heavy plume of incense that hung in the air. Against the far wall, she could see the flicker of candlelight reflecting from somewhere deeper in the house.

She pursed her lips, thinking this had all the makings of one of those super-cheesy satanic cult B-movies from the Eighties. Giving a tired eye roll—how she could be so nervous about something with such a lame setup was beyond her—she continued through the foyer and stepped into the parlor.

In the center of the room, a long table had been set, draped in rich, oddly-fitting crimson silk. An evenly spaced circle of black, tapered candles had been placed around a mortar and pestle in the exact center of the table. On both sides of the circle rested two incense burners, and—if the cloying combination invading her lungs was any indication—they each contained incense of a different scent.

What threw the scene off entirely was the laptop open on a separate, smaller table nearby. Frowning, she cast a look over her shoulder and listened for a moment. She saw no one, heard nothing. Almost against her better judgment, she walked up to the laptop.

* * *

He'd been aware the moment she'd set foot on the porch. If not for the ritual's preparations, he might have noticed sooner. There was no reason to hide his presence, after all, she knew he was supposed to be here, but then he'd been curious to see what she would do.

To see if that very Lydia Martin guise, that blend of boredom and bravery, would falter. A few times, it nearly had, but she'd forced it back into place and kept on, venturing into this world that must seem so alien to her; even after all she'd been subjected to recently.

His eyes narrowed as he watched her from one of the concealed nooks of the house. She intrigued him. Her sharp mind, her pouty, wide-eyed beauty—that she was dressed head-to-toe in form-fitting black, like some small, curvy cat burglar only helped in that respect—the walls she put up constantly. What, exactly, was she hiding from?

But her curiosity, he realized, as she ventured toward the open computer, could be trouble.

* * *

"I'm afraid that's private."

Lydia jumped at Peter's voice in her ear, her body tensing as he reached around her to close the laptop.

"I'm-" she paused, to keep from stammering, and forced herself to start again. "I'm sorry, I thought it was about the ritual."

"Oh," he shrugged—and he was so close behind her that she could feel the motion— "it is, but . . ." he made a _tsking_ sound, "it just so happens there's a part of the ritual I can't reveal until we've started it."

A tiny gulp went down her throat. She wanted to step forward, to move away from him, but the table blocked her. "That sounds_ very_ suspicious and creepy."

Again he shrugged as he pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. "Well, old magick is funny that way. Lots of little nuances, without which such rituals won't work."

She tried to repress a shudder and failed—uncomfortable with the feel of his breath ghosting over the side of her throat. "Which means what?"

"What it means, my dear, is that the emotions of the participants matters."

Lydia carefully schooled her features, despite the knowledge that he couldn't see her expression; it helped calm her jittery nerves. "How does that come to mean that I can't know what's going to happen?"

Peter delicately slid a hand around her elbow and turned the girl to face him as he asked simply, "Do you trust Derek?"

She blinked up at him as she thought this over. Oddly, the moment she'd heard the question, the word _yes_ had been on the tip of her tongue. "Why would that matter?"

"Consider it a necessity of this brand of magick," he replied cryptically.

_"You_ are the one I don't trust," she said, her voice faltering just a little. He'd turned her around, but he hadn't stepped back at all.

_Why_ wouldn't he give her just a little space?

"It doesn't matter if you trust _me_, I'm not participating in this ritual, I'm merely guiding the two of you through it."

She flinched as he stroked the tip of a finger along the line of her jaw.

Her brave and flippant guise wavered and, much to her dismay, it showed in the timid murmur of sound that tumbled from her lips. "What are you doing?"

Peter tipped his head to one side, unable to hide a mischievous grin.

* * *

When Derek pulled up outside of his family's old house, he could tell that there was still an approximate ten-to-fifteen minutes until the sun truly set. Lydia had not crossed his path on his drive through the overgrown, little-used back roads that laced sparsely through the woods, leading him to think she was either running late, or here already.

The least he could do this evening when everything was over would be to offer her a ride home. He didn't know how long this would take, and he did not like the idea of her traversing these woods at night, alone, with his uncle lurking about.

He frowned darkly. It was simply because she was so vulnerable and since she was only out here to help him, he would feel responsible if anything should happen to her. Yes, that was all.

Turning off the engine, he determinedly focused on the idea of simply getting through whatever it was Peter had planned for this evening. It didn't matter that he'd begun to see how incorrect his preconceived notions of Lydia Martin were—the shallow, spoiled, icy ditz. Well, she _was_ spoiled, but she was also thoughtful, intelligent, even a bit insightful—

Derek shook his head, his customary scowl overtaking his features.

Hadn't he just decided that he wasn't going to give this anymore thought? All that mattered was getting this ritual finished so that Peter might leave the girl alone.

And he would never have to see a startled or scared look in those big, hazel eyes again.

Finally stepping out of the car, he immediately had to give his head another shake. He could already pick up the heavy fog of incense from back here. He rounded the house, and was able to pluck out Lydia's scent from the others as he climbed the porch.

The front door stood open.

_"Do you trust Derek?"_ He heard Peter's voice.

He halted instantly, even though he had the creeping sensation that he should get in there, _now._

_"Why does that matter?"_

His gaze roved about as he listened to the faint tremor in Lydia's voice. The center of his chest felt a little hollow at hearing her non-answer, but he didn't quite understand the reason. What had he expected her to say?

_"Consider it a necessity of this brand of magick."_

. . . What in the hell did that even mean? Derek's expression became pinched and irritated. Not that he'd ever been a great student of magick, but he wasn't certain he'd ever heard of such a thing. Really, it just sounded like creepy, cryptic, Peter Hale nonsense.

_"_You_ are the one I don't trust."_

Derek held in a snicker at that. Some things shouldn't need to be said.

_"It doesn't matter if you trust me, I'm not participating in this ritual, I'm merely guiding the two of you through it."_

Shaking his head, Derek stepped into the house, waving thick whirls of incense smoke away from his face.

_"What are you doing?"_ He heard suddenly, a sharp edge of alarm in Lydia's whispered words.

* * *

"I'm sorry. I was just admiring your eyes," Peter said, his voice silky and even.

Over his shoulder, Lydia spotted a sudden blur of motion heading toward the man. In a blink, he was pulled away from her and hurled across the room.

She stifled a gasp as that blur came to a halt in front of her. As the sound of Peter's body crashing against a wall filled that house, she found herself staring at someone's back.

Lifting her gaze, she felt her nerves settle instantly. From the height, the set of his shoulders and he cut of his hair, she knew it was Derek standing before her; shielding her from Peter.

She leaned slightly to one side, just enough that she could see around Derek's leather jacket sleeved-arm. Peter shook his head, scowling as he pushed to his feet and dusted himself off. All the while, he grumbled about unnecessary displays of aggression.

"Yes," Lydia said rather suddenly, drawing the gazes of both males to her.

". . . Yes," she repeated, her voice much more confident, now. "I do trust Derek."

When her hazel eyes met his crimson over his shoulder, Derek was as surprised to see sincerity in her expression, as she was to see a hint of startled awe in his.


	7. Trap

**Chapter Seven**

Trap

He'd never really had someone trust him before. He wasn't even certain his own wolves trusted him.

Hell, after what happened with Kate Argent, he didn't even trust himself.

Lydia pursed her lips and gave a determined nod. She'd made up her mind, and once Lydia Martin made up her mind about something, there was no going back.

Her pulse was steady. No skips, no upticks. She was telling the truth. She _trusted_ him. It was a realization that settled, warm and a little weighty, over Derek. But it was a burden that didn't feel at all unpleasant.

He wondered briefly if perhaps _this_ was what redemption felt like.

Visibly shaking himself, he turned his attention back to his uncle, a growl running beneath his words as he said, "You don't touch her."

Peter nodded, cracking a mischievous half-grin, before striding toward the long, candle-laden table. "Someone's a might territorial."

_Territorial?_ The word bounced around in Derek's head. No, that wasn't right—she wasn't _his._

"He's just protecting me from you," Lydia said from behind him, as though she was thinking along the same lines.

"Tsk, tsk," Peter responded in an unsettlingly cheerful tone as he looked at her over his shoulder. "Now why would you think he'd need to do that?"

She crossed her arms under her breasts, giving her chin a little, defiant lift. Somehow, having Derek here made her bravery more than a mere guise. "Because, like I said, I don't trust you."

Peter spread his hand, continuing the amiable act. "So, you trust him, he protects you. All in order. Shall we begin?"

Derek and Lydia exchanged a glance. The former alpha seemed rather pleased with his observation.

She wondered briefly just how much of a hand Peter might've actually had in the friendship she and Derek were forming. In fact, the idea that the older wolf was perhaps manipulating their emotions—for his own, unnamed reasons, since she did not believe him capable of going so far for anyone other than himself— made her want to storm out of this house right now and never look back.

But . . . that would mean leaving Derek to whatever fate had in store for him. Derek, who had nothing to do with his uncle's machinations.

Derek, who was becoming someone important to her, even if this would be the last time they saw each other.

The alpha crouched, still, tense and ready to tear Peter's throat out at the slightest provocation, until he felt the weight of a small hand falling lightly upon his shoulder. He looked back, meeting Lydia's gaze.

She forced a small, encouraging smile. "Let's get this over with."

Nodding slowly, Derek relaxed and straightened up, but remained defensively in front of her. "Are you going to finally tell us what we're supposed to do for this ritual?"

"Hmm?" Peter picked up the mortar and turned to face them. "Of course, I was just going over it all in my head."

Stepping away from the table, he gestured back toward it with his free hand. "Over here, both of you."

The pair exchanged another quick glance before they crossed the room. Derek eyed his uncle warily the entire time, arching a suspicious brow when the man drew a ceremonial dagger from behind his back. The blade must've been tucked beneath Peter's shirt, in the waistband of his jeans.

Peter turned the blade, holding the hilt out toward Derek. "This is for you."

Cautiously, as though he expected Peter to turn it around and swipe at him at any minute, Derek took the dagger. Never had there been a more ridiculous idea than that of a werewolf wielding a knife.

"And for you," Peter said as he pushed the mortar into Lydia's hand.

Lydia peered into the deep, carved marble dish. "What is this?" she asked, staring at the dark, sparkling powder.

Derek leaned closer to her, examining the contents for himself. "Mountain ash."

"You need to make a circle around the table with that," Peter instructed as he went back to his laptop and opened the screen. "But just use a very light sprinkle; we don't want to waste any."

She looked up to Derek for guidance and he offered a small nod before turning his attention on Peter. He watched his uncle through narrowed eyes as Lydia rounded the table, dusting a thin line of the powdered mountain ash along the floor as she went.

Only after she stepped through the circle, returning to Derek's side and setting the mortar back into the center of the table, did Peter begin to explain.

"Alright, and I can't stress this too lightly, now that we've started, this is a ritual that can't be stopped until it's completed."

"It figures," Derek grumbled, his expression souring. "You've been avoiding telling us too much 'cause you know there's a part of this ritual we're not going to like."

"I didn't even like the 'not too much' that he _did_ share with us," Lydia said quietly.

Peter ignored the displeased commentary of the ritual's participants. "This incense is a very specific blend, the purpose of which is to dull the sensation of physical pain."

He waited, giving them some time to absorb that information.

Frowning, Derek extended a claw and, after a moment's hesitation, jabbed it into the open palm of his other hand, aware of Lydia cringing as she looked on. ". . . Huh."

"Oh God, are you okay?"

Derek nodded, merely watching the wound as it healed. "There was _no_ pain." This was why Peter has so quickly shaken off getting hurled across the room. Understanding, immediately, that this was likely a very bad sign . . . and that Peter was _very_ smart to ensure that there was a line of mountain ash protecting him before he'd mentioned any of this, Derek turned his gaze back to his uncle.

"Why?" The alpha demanded, the immediate, acute awareness of such confinement had him suddenly feeling like a caged beast.

"Funny, you should ask," Peter said in a chipper tone as he folded his arms across his chest and shrugged. "See, the reason this ritual was buried, and hasn't been used in so long, is because of how frowned upon it is." He paused deliberately before explaining further, "Due to its . . . vampiric nature."

"What?" The participants asked in unison, and then Lydia added, "Wait, you only mean that in context to this ritual, right? I mean . . . there aren't actually vampires, are there?"

Peter waved a dismissive hand. "Don't be ridiculous, of course there are."

Hazel eyes went wide at this revelation, but this was not the time or place for such a discussion.

"But they have nothing to do with this," the older wolf assured her in a serene voice. "I just mean it in that this ritual involves more than _just_ bloodletting."

"He means it involves blood _sharing,"_ Derek said in a low growl.

Lydia . . . wanted to curl up and die right there. She had to _drink_ blood? Derek's blood? She looked up at him, trying to imagine the act; realizing that it would be two-sided.

That _he_ would have to drink hers, as well.

Hadn't she been determined, all this time, to help him? She watched him now, as he paced in the cramped area allowed by the circle. It didn't seem right that such a strong creature should need to be protected, least of all by someone as comparatively powerless as her.

But he did _need_ this. As long as that alpha pack lurked in the shadows, as long as they hid themselves and their intentions, Derek needed all the help he could get.

She swung her gaze toward Peter to find him already staring at her. Her decision to keep going must have been etched on her face.

"You're going to need to talk him down; he's not going to listen to _me_ like this."

As much as she hated siding with Peter, she was also coming to understand that Derek would be hindered by his own stubbornness if she didn't get through to him.

Peter had said they couldn't stop the ritual now that they'd started. She felt pretty certain she'd heard somewhere that unfulfilled magic could have a terrible backlash. But that was ridiculous, she didn't know the first thing about magic, it had probably been in a fairy tale.

But she wasn't willing to risk finding out if it was true.

"Derek?"

He didn't respond, continuing to pace, restlessly, back and forth in front of his uncle. Lydia wasn't sure he'd even noticed her calling him. She reached out to touch his arm, but immediately remembered the way he jumped at her when she'd woken him that morning in her room and quickly snatched her hand back. No, he was wide awake now, completely aware of his surroundings. Aware that even as he stalked and growled, she was trapped in the circle with him.

She had said that she trusted him, now she had to prove it. Even if it meant ignoring the realization hanging over her head suddenly that this might have been what Peter'd had in mind all along.


	8. Entwined

**SPECIAL THANKS TO ATHENA606! **

**The Derek/Lydia vid she was creating for me when last I posted is now complete; go check it out! **

**Youtube search words: Derek Lydia Until the Day I Die.**

My only regret is that there is not more Derek/Lydia material, so only a portion of the song was able to be used. Regardless of the video's length, Athena did an AMAZING job! Here's to hoping the double-sized 3rd season will offer Dydia moments for more awesome fanvids.

**CHAPTER WARNING:** This chapter has 'vampiric acts' contained herein. If you're not comfortable with that, don't read it. I'll not tolerate flames/bashing reviews.

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

Entwined

First, she'd been attacked by Peter. Then, she'd had to save Jackson. Now, she had to—for lack of a better term—_tame_ Derek. The whole thing made her feel an awful lot like she had a stamp on her forehead that read _Monster Bait_.

Only . . . .

Even as she watched him stalking the boundary of the circle; even as he growled and forced deep, scary sounding, animalistic breaths out from behind clenched teeth, she could think only one thing.

Derek Hale was no monster.

He was her _friend_ . . . . She understood suddenly that what he'd said the other day wasn't a case of misspeaking. He might not have intended to say it, but the words were still true.

He felt safe around her.

He protected her because of that, she trusted him because he _protected_ her, he felt _safe _with her because she _trusted_ him . . . . Protected-trusted-safe, protected-trusted-safe. It was a circle, making it difficult for her to grasp who had developed which emotion first.

But then she wasn't certain that mattered. This was where they were _now_.

Nodding determinedly, Lydia tried calling to him again.

* * *

A crimson haze edged the periphery of Derek's vision as he glared at his uncle. If not for the mountain ash keeping them apart, he would be ripping the older wolf's throat out with his teeth. His claws itched with the want to sink into Peter's flesh and _tear. _The blade in his hand felt weighty and alien.

For a moment, he was so enraged that he was blinded. He couldn't clearly recall what caused him to seethe like this. There was an almost blissful purity to his anger.

_Derek . . . ._

That voice echoed dully in his ears; a mere whisper against the thundering roar of his own pulse. He instantly felt torn, he wanted to push the acknowledgement away and revel in his rage, but he also wanted to let himself be calmed.

But how long had it been since he'd _not_ been angry? He couldn't remember.

_Derek._

Derek shook his head slowly, his eyelids drifted down. Like pulling himself out of a fog, he tried to latch onto the sound of his name being spoken.

At last, he thought he had a grip on himself. Small, delicate fingers settled ever so gently on the back of his neck and he went deathly still.

* * *

Lydia froze.

She'd put every ounce of effort she had into placing her hand on him and now he was like a statue. The sudden stillness of his form gave her the terrifying sense, as though she might simply be facing the calm before a storm.

But then a tremor ran through him and she saw the set of his shoulders ease.

He turned his head slowly to meet her gaze over his shoulder. The sense of relief that washed through her was so intense, she thought she might collapse on the spot.

His eyes had returned to their non-wolfy green shade, and his features had smoothed; no glimpse of fang peeked out from between his lips.

"I'm ready if you are," she whispered, offering him a wan smile that wavered only slightly.

At her words, Derek turned toward her fully and lowered his head, catching her gaze with his own. "You don't have to do this. I don't care what he says, there has to be a way."

Lydia pursed her lips her attention landing on Peter for a brief moment, before returning to Derek. A dreadful certainty was written all over Peter Hale's face—his expression echoed the words he'd spoken just a few minutes ago.

Now that they'd started, the only way out of the ritual was to finish.

"I wish there was," she said quietly.

Grasping Derek's free hand, she stepped up beside him—turning him with her as she moved—so that they both faced the former alpha. "What do we do?"

Her question brought a smile to Peter's lips as he said, "Finally some cooperation. Well, now, Derek, you cut her forearm, she cuts yours and . . . well, I trust you know where this goes from there?"

Derek frowned darkly as he tightened his grip on the knife's hilt. "I don't like this," he murmured, even as he pulled up the sleeve of his jacket, to his elbow.

"Careful," Peter warned as he watched his nephew hand the dagger to Lydia. "That 'oh poor me, I'm being forced' attitude could muck up the whole thing. This must all be done _willingly_."

Now Lydia understood Peter's vested interest in her budding friendship with Derek. If she consented to this only because she felt backed into a corner, the ritual might not work.

Of course, that still begged the question of why Peter was going so far to help Derek in the first place, but now wasn't the time for pondering ulterior motives. She was certain Peter had far more of those than she, or Derek, could imagine, anyway.

She eased up the sleeve of her shirt, as well, and noticed how very pale her skin appeared in the candlelight. Summer break couldn't get here fast enough—she was _badly_ in need of time to lie out and catch a tan.

"Lydia, my sweet, if you would please begin." Without waiting to see if his instruction was followed, Peter turned away from them and began reading aloud from the open screen of his laptop.

Lydia didn't recognize the language, but the dialect sounded Nordic . . . . Old English, perhaps? She thought she caught familiar-enough words here and there: _blood, sacrificed?_ . . . _Maybe that was _offered_?_

Derek held his arm out to her, his hand tightened in a fist, making the muscles tense and the veins on the inside of his wrist stand out. He drew across his skin with the tip of his finger, indicating a horizontal line across the upper part of his forearm.

Nodding, she took a deep breath as she held onto his elbow with her free hand. She couldn't stop the wince that tugged at her features as she sliced into his skin. Either the knife was incredibly sharp, or werewolf skin wasn't very tough, because the cut was quick and smooth.

She doubted it to be the latter.

Derek didn't flinch. Not that she'd expected him to, but the idea that the incense they'd been breathing in for the last several minutes numbed pain wasn't something she'd whole-heartedly believed until just now.

She turned the blade around and handed it over to him, her gaze fixed upon the slick sheen of crimson welling up from the cut in his arm. Steeling herself, Lydia rested her forearm in his waiting hand and closed her eyes tightly as he brought the blade across her skin with the other.

The sensation that followed was bizarre . . . the cold of the blade pulled at her flesh. Then the warmth of her own blood surfaced. But pain? There _really_ wasn't any.

Her eyes opened slowly, uncertainly. Almost as though she expected that he'd not actually cut her yet, but there it was. A line of dripping red marred her fair skin.

In the background, she could hear Peter speaking, still. No, not speaking, exactly . . . chanting. He was saying the same string of words over and over. Two sentences, pause, one sentence, pause. Repeat.

She lifted her gaze to Derek and he gave his uncle a last, withering scowl before he set the blade on the table.

He used the hand on Lydia's arm to lift her wound to his lips. But he waited. Only when she wrapped her hands—those small, delicate, human hands—around his arm and mirrored his action, did he follow through, gently closing his mouth around the cut.

Lydia bit back a hissing breath. She wasn't certain what drinking blood was supposed to feel, or taste, like, but she's been positive that it wasn't _this_.

This felt . . _. good._ Oh, God, was it going to feel this good for him, too?

She had no idea how to take that.

"Lydia, darling?" Peter's syrupy-sweet voice cut into her thoughts and she threw him a scathing look.

"Magick waits for no one," he said smoothly as he made a _go on_ gesture.

With a dark frown, she reluctantly turned her attention back to Derek. She ignored the fluttery warmth that settled low in her belly, and the way her knees wanted to give out from under her, as she lowered her head to the gash in Derek's arm and closed her eyes.

Lydia pulled in a deep breath, exhaled slowly and then ran the tip of her tongue along the torn flesh. The taste . . . wasn't bad. She couldn't really place what it _was_, but it didn't deter her from what she needed to do.

Placing her mouth carefully around the cut, she lapped and suckled, slowly drawing out the blood.

* * *

For a few moments, Derek felt lost in the taste. He'd never tasted blood when it wasn't from biting, or attacking someone. Somehow, this was different. Or perhaps it was simply because this was the blood of a rare creature.

Did her immunity make her blood taste different? The girl was like wine.

He was mindful to drink slowly—he didn't want to hurt her, nor get _too_ lost. There was more of the ritual to be completed.

But then Lydia's mouth was on his skin and a sense of tingling warmth washed over him, radiating from the cut; from her lips pressing against him, her tongue dancing across the wound.

It took everything in him not to release her arm so that he could tangle his fingers in her hair and hold her to him.

"Ah, ah, alright, children," Peter said with a sharp clap of his hands. "We must move on," he added when the ritual's participants seemed reluctant to stop.

Derek suppressed a growl as he lifted his head. He felt a little . . . drunk, even . . . giddy, maybe. He had to force himself not to laugh when Lydia pushed his arm away, her cheeks flaring with a vibrant blush.

"Now, each of you puts just a bit of your blood into the mortar."

Peter spoke hurriedly, as though they needed to move quickly, but Derek almost couldn't take his uncle's sudden urgency seriously. Coughing to cover a laugh, the alpha picked up the mortar and held his arm over the cup.

Lydia noticed Derek's wound starting to close. This must be why Peter was rushing them now. And what the hell was wrong with Derek? Rolling her eyes, she clamped her hands around his forearm and kneaded his skin, forcing out a few crimson droplets.

Derek cleared his throat and gave his head a shake before meeting the gaze of a rather confused Lydia Martin. "Thanks."

With small, resigned sigh, she added her own blood to the mortar, not needing Peter's instruction as she used the pestle to blend the blood into the mountain ash. Stepping up to the boundary of the circle, she held out the mortar to Peter.

The older wolf accepted the marble dish just as Lydia dropped to her knees. Hot, pained tears welled up as the first of Derek Hale's memories washed over her.

Derek sobered almost instantly at the sudden commotion. What was happening to her?

"I'll . . . just go . . ." Peter looked a touch uncomfortable, staring into the mortar as the bridge of his nose crinkled, "and take care of this part." And then he was gone.

Growling under his breath, Derek lowered himself to the floor beside her. He . . . didn't really know what to do about hysterical women—he wasn't sure any male actually _did_—so he simply waited for her to give some indication.

Lydia felt like she was suffocating. Buried under the weight of fear, of guilt . . . . So much self-hatred and anger. She could see flashes. Snippets of time in Derek Hale's life. She could feel the searing rage and pain the moment he'd learned of the fire that had taken all but himself, his sister and his uncle.

The burden . . . the realization that he'd been used to cause so much harm to his family. It never mattered that he hadn't known what the outcome would be; all that had mattered was that his family was _dead_ and he was still here.

An icy fist clenched around her heart. This was the unbearable cross of survivor's guilt, suffered by someone possessed of far too much will to simply lay down and die. Even his sister's death, he blamed on himself. If he'd been strong enough, if he'd been the alpha, he'd have come to Beacon Hills, first. He'd be dead now and Laura would still be alive.

Lydia knew that when the full moon came, the anger, the nearly all-consuming wrath Derek used as an anchor, was anger at himself.

She startled at a touch on her shoulder. Looking back, she found Derek's green eyes boring worriedly into hers.

Sniffling, she spoke in a low, trembling whisper. "It wasn't your fault."

He scowled, but stayed silent. What was she talking about?

Understanding that he was as stubborn as she—he wasn't going to admit to anything he wasn't ready to—Lydia turned and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly, whether he liked it or not as she sobbed.

"You have to forgive yourself." Before she could stop herself, she added, "You didn't kill them."

Shock and just a flicker of pain ran through Derek Hale at her words. He knew what was happening to her, now. This was like a bite, she must have seen his memories. His arms curled around her of their own volition as she trembled and cried against him.

Lydia Martin must be experiencing the darkest moments of his life, he realized and simply pressed his cheek against the top of her head.

That was a pain he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy.

* * *

"Didn't your mother teach you that spying is wrong?"

Scott nearly jumped out of his skin at Peter's voice behind him.

He'd crept up here to find out what was really happening between Derek and Lydia. Yet, when he arrived at the house, something told him to stay away. The sensation raised the hairs on the back of his neck, but still he had to know what was happening.

He had noticed the window, then. The way candlelight clearly flickered from inside the house. And so he had sat and . . . before he knew it, he'd witnessed a very bizarre interaction between Lydia Martin and Derek Hale. He probably could have interfered, could have put a stop to it, but he had no clue what was going on . . . or what type of distraction wasn't going to get him in huge trouble with everyone in that room.

And now Lydia was crying in Derek's arms.

Scott gave a lopsided frown as he shrugged at Peter. How had he gotten here, again?

"I . . . wasn't spying. I just came to, ya know, see what's going on. So . . . what's going on?"

Peter feigned a smile as he grabbed Scott by the scruff of his neck and started dragging him along. "Stiles need to teach you how to lie. Come along, you can help me."

Scott's brows shot up as he noticed the dish in Peter's other hand. "Help you do what?"

"Act like friend to my nephew. You know, that thing you'd be doing if you didn't have to be such a whiney brat all the time."

Scowling, Scott shook off Peter's hand, but followed the older wolf anyway as he grumbled under his breath, "I don't whine."


	9. Interference

**Shortish chapter, sorry :(**

**Also Congratulations to Athena606! One of her vids was nominated in the Teen Wolf Fan Works contest on Tumblr!**

**Chapter Nine**

Interference

"What the hell did I just see?" Scott demanded as he followed Peter to, what seemed to him, some random midway-point between the Hale house and the boundary of the Beacon Hills preserve.

Peter didn't bother looking at the pup as he leaned down, using the pestle like a paintbrush to carefully stroke a fine line of bloodied mountain ash in the soil. "Well, what do you _think_ you saw?"

Scott furrowed his brow as he watched the older wolf's actions. "I think I saw Lydia and Derek, um . . . ." Truthfully, Scott couldn't be entirely certain of _what_ he thought he'd seen, except to say that the moment had appeared . . . intimate.

"Okay, I don't know." He pointed back in the general direction of the house. "I don't know what that was, but whatever it was probably isn't something Lydia and Derek _should_ be doing!"

"So judgey . . . always so judgey, Scott. This is why people who should want to confide in you are reluctant to."

Scott halted, almost without realizing. "I'm not judging anyone, that just all seemed . . . very wrong."

Peter gave a perturbed sigh, briefly glancing back at the boy as he went about lining the boundary. "You don't even know what was going on, yet you just called it wrong. That's judging. All you need to know is that Lydia is here of her own volition. And, I'd tell you what is going on," he looked at Scott again, the corners of his mouth quirking upward in a small, mirthless grin, "but I'm not sure you deserve to know."

Scowling, the younger wolf shook his head. "Is that because Derek doesn't trust me, or because you don't?"

When Peter glanced back this time, a hint of genuine humor had leaked into his expression. "Take your pick."

"Just . . . ." Scott shook his head, quickly exasperated with Peter's irritatingly jovial façade. "Just tell me what's going on."

Peter heaved a sigh before he straightened up and turned on a heel to look Scott in the eyes. "Simply put? Derek needs—well, needed—help, and only one person was capable of providing it."

Scott shook his head, opening and closing his mouth a few times as he digested this idea. Nope, still couldn't wrap his head around it. "Help? Derek needed help . . . from _Lydia_?"

Frowning thoughtfully for a moment, Peter gave a responding shake of his head and turned back to his task. "And you wonder why you don't catch on to things 'til it's too late."

Before Scott could utter a reply, Peter spoke again, "You've made quite the habit of acting on what _you_ consider to be the right thing to do. Now, while that is, normally, an admirable quality, what you fail to realize is that unless you learn both sides of a story, you can't know where right and wrong lie."

"Well, if they would just tell me what's going on, I wouldn't have to think anything," Scott said defensively.

Peter blinked rapidly a few times, toyed with the idea of picking apart that statement, but decided that path too easy. "Have you ever considered being there for someone, _just_ for the sake of being there for them?"

"Of course!"

"Other than Allison."

Scott flinched as he sidestepped a fallen tree branch. That wasn't fair! He was a good person, dammit! Sure, he could be a little . . . blind when it came to Allison, but he was head over heels in love with her—she was his first girlfriend, his first love, his first _everything_—what did people expect?

"Still the same answer."

"No, Scott." Peter paused, looking up, catching the scent on the wind to determine how far they'd moved during their discussion. To his surprise, they'd already covered quite a bit of ground. "Let me provide you with a scenario: Derek comes to you and says 'Peter has an idea to help me with a huge problem that you don't know anything about'. How do you respond?"

Scott shrugged, saying the first thing that came to mind, "What's the huge problem?"

The former alpha seemed to mull this over a moment. "He says that the less you know, the better, involving you would put you in danger. _Then _how do you respond?"

"I'd tell him not to trust you."

"But you don't even know what's going on, nor has he asked you for your opinion on the matter."

This confused Scott, his mouth tugged to one side, setting his already uneven jaw completely askew. "Then why would he tell me at all?"

"To keep you in the loop? To keep you in the know about what I'm up to? What does it matter?" Peter turned briefly, shaking a finger in the boy's face. "That's your problem, Scott. You can't be involved in anything without interfering. The people who should trust you can't because_ you_ can't simply be there for them without trying to force yourself into their problems. And, in this instance, Stiles doesn't count, either."

"That's not fair," Scott grumbled, furrowing his brow once more as he wondered what was in the mortar that Peter seemed to be so careful with.

"Isn't it? He doesn't, but he should. Considering that since I gave you the bite, you've been a pretty lousy friend to him until recently."

The boy's shoulders slumped as he thought that over. He didn't like that Peter was right, but he couldn't deny it, either. Certainly, he was here because of Stiles, but if he looked back over the last few months, he knew he'd seen Stiles being his only support at times, while all he seemed to do was put Stiles in danger. And, of course, there was that one time he made out with the girl of his best friend's dreams.

And yet, Stiles had forgiven him. Had blamed every negative thing Scott had done or said on the full moon. Maybe Scott wasn't as good a person as he thought. But he _tried_, and that had to count for something.

"I'm still a better person than you," he pointed out.

Peter's shoulders shook lightly with a small, rumbling chuckle. "You say that like it's difficult. Next scenario: Lydia comes to you and says she's going to sacrifice some of her blood to protect Derek from an impending threat. What do you do?"

Scott's thoughts screeched to a halt. That was an unnervingly specific setup. He pointed at the mortar. "Tell me that's not what's in there."

No, no that couldn't be—sacrifice was not Lydia's forte . . . Scott wasn't even certain the word was in her vocabulary.

"Well, no," Peter said simply before giving a shrug. "And yes . . . and some other ingredients."

Oh, oh this was not good! Scott circled Peter, blocking the man's progress. "What the he—"

"This has been a fun chat, but you're beginning to test my patience, Scott."

"You tell me that's a girl's blood in there and expect me to react how?"

Peter sighed heavily, his blue eyes rolling. "To be fair, it's also Derek's blood." Scott's already wide eyes managed to widen further, still, but Peter hurried on before the boy could respond. "Fine, I'll tell you what's going on if you can keep it to yourself . . . and you don't go pulling what I'm going to start referring to as 'a Scott McCall.'"

"A Scott McCall?"

"That terrible habit you have of constantly barging into the middle of a situation you know little about, because you assume to know what the right thing is." The older wolf let out an exasperated huff of breath as he shook his head. "I get so tired of repeating myself with you."

Scott hung back for a few paces, thinking over what to do. This might be the only way to find out what was really happening. . . . And if he missed this opportunity to get the truth about Derek and Lydia, Stiles would _kill _him.

"Alright," he said, hurrying to catch up to Peter. "I . . . promise to keep it to myself." He meant those words; even if he couldn't tell Stiles exactly what was going on, he'd be able to tell his friend about things that weren't going on.

"And not to bumble into the middle of anything you don't have a reasonable amount of information on?"

Scott cringed, tipping his head to one side to crack his neck. "And I promise not to . . ." he frowned darkly, "pull a Scott McCall."

* * *

She fell asleep!

Derek couldn't believe the girl had fallen asleep on him. Though, she'd been hysterical for a good while, and it had been a long night. He couldn't imagine what being forced through the rigors of the more painful parts of his life all at once would be like for anyone.

Frowning, he stared down into her face for a long moment. This was the same deeply peaceful expression she'd worn when she'd been on those pills last week, which could only mean that the girl was out cold.

He'd just have to carry her back to her house. Wouldn't be the first time.

He shifted his hold on her, scooping her up and was about to stand when he remembered . . . .

Scowling, he followed the line of mountain ash with his gaze. He wasn't going to be able to go anywhere until Lydia woke up and broke the circle.

Growling deep in his throat, Derek settled back down and rested his back against a table leg. He fought a yawn, wondering what took Peter so long.

Blinking hard, he shook his head. Why was he suddenly so tired? Did the ritual have some draining effect of which he wasn't aware?

Lydia made a tiny snorting sound.

He peered down at her, waiting for her to awaken, but she merely curled up further, nuzzling her cheek against his chest.

Derek's eyebrows shot up. He didn't know how to respond to this. Clearly she was so deeply asleep she'd forgotten both where she was, and with whom.

"You snore," he said quietly, hoping that perhaps pointing out to her—even in this state—some unsightly habit might cause her to stir.

When she still didn't budge, he shook his head once more and rested the back of his skull against the table.

* * *

Scott froze in mid-stride upon entering the parlor of the Hale house. Even after what Peter had explained to him, there was no kind of prep for the very bizarre sight of Derek Hale with Lydia curled up in his lap, both of them snoozing peacefully.

"Huh," Peter said from over Scott's shoulder. "Who'd have guessed? She snores."


	10. Bonded

**READERS WHO MAKE FAN-VIDS: I have a request. **Now, this came up 'cause I (like many writers) have a particular playlist for when I write. As I started this chapter, the song _Hero_ by Skillet was playing. Now, all I can think about is a Teen Wolf vid set to this song (if you're unfamiliar, give it a listen and you'll _totally_ understand XD). I would like to ask if someone would be the most wonderful person in the world and make this vid for me? I would love for the vid to be Dydia-centric, but an overall Teen Wolf-gang, "Omg, there's a situation that concerns all of us" conflict type-scenario is fine too . . . as long as it conveys a Dydia feel/undertone .

Please leave a comment in your review or PM me if you'd like to accept this challenge.

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

Bonded

He watched the moment through Lydia's eyes.

She told herself she didn't know what she saw; forced herself to believe what everyone said—that the creature she'd glimpsed was a mountain lion—despite the nagging little voice echoing in the back of her head, reminding her that the story she'd been fed wasn't true.

But he registered the beast as it dashed through the parking lot. He recognized the thing in her memory, even as her conscious mind blurred the image so that she could never truly be certain of what she'd witnessed.

He was aware of _so_ much more than she'd been, grasped so many things that escaped her notice, because of her dull, human senses.

Her memories showed him tiny snapshots. Moments in which she'd felt watched, even a bit spooked. She'd turn her head quickly, attempt to catch whoever lurked, but they always seemed just beyond the scope of her vision. Or her imagination was simply playing tricks on her, she told herself.

But Derek knew better almost instantly. He'd caught a scent that had been in the air, too faint for any human to have noticed, but lined within her recollection all the same.

_Peter_.

Derek felt ice settle over his skin. His stomach churned and something in his chest clenched painfully as he realized just how long Peter had plotted his attack on the girl.

Everything became clear in that moment.

He realized Peter would have intervened, would have prevented Scott from killing her, and only her, that night at the school, if the boy would have done what he was _supposed_ to and disposed of his old, human pack.

Lydia . . . in a shop, picking dresses with Allison and . . . what the hell was Stiles doing there? Oh, he was playing Lydia's lap dog, of course, never mind.

No, the puzzling thing was that out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a handsome, if somewhat older, man chatting with Allison. The moment had passed so quickly that she didn't consciously recall that she'd seen Peter Hale that day.

But he knew why his uncle was there. Peter was gauging just how much the hunter-child knew, whether she'd been told anything at all, just yet. Surely, any of the older Argents would recognize him on sight; he had to know if she was familiar with the Hales at all.

Stupid Scott, believing Peter meant Allison when he'd mentioned going after someone vulnerable. As if a child from a hunter family could_ ever_ be considered vulnerable?

No, this all began with that moment in the parking lot. Peter had caught her scent. His alpha senses told him there was something different about her.

Something he'd only ever guessed at; something he'd only ever heard rumors of being possible.

Something that could only be activated if a supernatural element were introduced to her system.

He'd known Lydia was immune. Or, at least, he had an idea.

Before Derek had the luxury to get angry, he was catapulted through more recent events. He felt as though he was_ there_; as if he stood right behind Lydia, sharing in her fear and anguish as Jackson made her the target of his Kanima-fueled temper tantrums.

None of her so-called friends seemed to have time for her, and when they did, she was overcome by the undeniable feeling that they kept things from her. Her parents were involved in their own problems—the least of which was Lydia's emotional state, even after she'd been attacked.

That was why she'd become a star student and the queen of the school, in the first place. It began with the simple acts of burying herself in her school work and putting on a brave face, so no one would know how much her parents' divorce—and their constant bickering, the endless struggles to prove who loved her more—had hurt her.

Instead, everyone simply assumed her to be icy, and, outside of straight academics, an airhead. So she went with that.

Shock washed through him as Lydia found herself speaking to a boy he knew to be a young Peter Hale. Against her own better judgment, she'd been drawn to him . . .

Derek felt every ounce of her confidence and security crumble under the weight of revelation as she realized who the boy truly was.

Peter's voice was in her ear, his words floating through her head, constantly. He gave her no peace, not until he was in his own skin would he leave her be, he promised her.

That was all she'd wanted. To be free, to feel sane. When she'd woken up in her bed the morning after Peter's revival, the relief at his absence was so great that she cried.

Then, she saw him leaping out of the darkness to plunge his claws into Jackson's back. Peter Hale had returned. She immediately distanced herself from that moment. After she left the depot that night, she forced all shreds of the former alpha from her mind.

. . . Until she found him perched on her window sill. For a split-second, every terrible emotion he'd ever inspired in her coursed through her. Fear and anger and hate,—and shamefully, sadly, mortifyingly, even a touch of lust, that she would_ die_ before admitting to herself she'd felt toward him for those few moments when he'd played at being someone with whom she could connect—crashed into one another in the sleepy recesses of her mind, snapping her awake, immediately and harshly.

She dusted off her usual mask of cold disconnection, and set the façade firmly in place as she started off for the Hale house the next day.

Those same moments between Lydia and Derek played out from her side. She felt the same doubts, at almost the same moments. He even found it laughable when she wished that she actually _was_ the coldhearted ditz everyone thought her to be, then she wouldn't have cared that he _needed_ her help.

He tripped over her acknowledgement of him as her _friend_.

. . . Of him as _not_ a monster.

* * *

"What do you mean I can't leave?"

Scott's voice broke into Lydia's sleepy mind and she tried to push the sound away. But she was bothered by Scott being near to her when she was so comfortable.

What the hell was Scott doing there, anyway? She pouted as she reluctantly blinked her eyes open. Where was she, again?

She was cuddled up in someone's arms, and just inside the parlor entrance—beyond the line of mountain ash—stood Scott and Peter. Peter Hale's profile, and the glittery boundary of the circle, brought last night's events back to her instantly.

"Exactly what I told you. You simply weren't listening," Peter replied, his smooth voice calm and collected, as usual, but with an edge that said the boy tested his patience.

Lydia lifted her face, her cheek rubbed against Derek's chest as she looked up at him. He was asleep, his head tipped downward, and she dreaded waking him, but she wondered if perhaps it was better for her to do so than to let him be woken by the two werewolves sniping at each other.

She tried to sit up, and the motion alone was enough to stir him. Green eyes opened slowly. Much to her relief, unlike that day in her room, he didn't budge.

For a long moment, they simply looked at one another. She knew about him, now, things no one else did. The blood had to be the cause, which meant he probably had similar knowledge of her.

The expression on his face—that she could tell mirrored hers, based on how she felt—was of someone grappling to understand; someone digesting new information about a topic they'd believed they already knew.

"Wh-what?" Scott stammered, clearly neither he, nor the older wolf, noticed Derek and Lydia had awoken. "_When_ did you tell me that?"

Peter shrugged, setting down a brown paper bag and a tray of coffee. _Four _coffees. Clearly, he'd known that Scott wouldn't be able to leave while he'd gone out to get something for them all to eat.

"I told you, that the only wolves who'd be able to come and go as they please are those tied to Derek. If you want to be able to traipse in and out as you like, you're going to have to be part of his pack."

Scott blanched. "What?"

"What?" Derek echoed, sleepily, shifting to sit up, though it hadn't occurred to him to set Lydia down, yet.

Scott glanced at the alpha, before doing a double-take. The mismatched paired looking so . . . disturbingly comfortable with one another made his eyebrows shoot up into his hair line, but he pushed that aside. He needed to focus on the here and now.

"You didn't know anything about this?"

Derek scowled, shaking his head. "I knew we'd be keeping wolves that aren't mine out of my territory. I didn't know he was going to pull you into this."

"You know, originally I wasn't going to," Peter said reasonably as he pulled a coffee free and opened the lid to take a sip. "But he was here, sticking his nose where it doesn't belong, and I just figured . . . he does that so much anyway, he might as well be pack."

Lydia, roused by the scent of coffee, stretched and pulled out of Derek's arms.

* * *

The alpha forced himself to ignore the way her body moved against his. Unfortunately, he could tell from the sudden stares of the other two wolves, that the reaction of his more primal instincts to the warm, shifting weight of her against him—followed immediately her absence—hadn't gone entirely unnoticed.

She yawned, cracking her neck and stretching again, as she thoughtlessly reached beyond the edge of the circle to grab a cup.

Much to the surprise of all three males, she seemed to—just as thoughtlessly, just as naturally—withdraw a second cup and set it on the floor in front of Derek.

"Lydia," he said, clearing his throat, before taking a quick sip and setting the cup back down. "I need you to break the circle or I can't leave."

Frowning thoughtfully, she turned to look at him, and then glanced toward the windows. Muted sunlight poked through nailed-up boards and broken, dusty glass.

She groaned, her head falling back. "I was here all night? Fantastic. I'm going to be in so much trouble."

"I tried to take you home, but I," he shrugged, looking equally exasperated and helpless, "couldn't get out of the circle."

Pursing her lips, she nodded. "Sorry." Stepping over to the line of mountain ash, she knelt down and forced out a breath, blowing away a few inches of the dark, sparkling powder.

* * *

"Wait a minute," she said as she turned back to Derek. Lydia knew she wasn't nearly as versed in all of this as the werewolves were, so perhaps she'd missed something. "Peter's not your pack, is he?"

Derek frowned darkly; his jaw instantly clenched so tightly a little muscle in his cheek jumped. "No."

Almost against her will, she looked over at Peter. Suddenly she had a _very_ bad feeling. "If you're a wolf who's not pack, how come _you_ can come and go as you please?"

She knew the answer, but she needed to hear the words spoken.

Peter shrugged, his expression said clearly that he thought this point an obvious one. "Because I'm one of Derek's _blood_ relations."

Lydia folded in on herself, her sense of security again crumbling at her feet. There was no where she'd ever feel safe from Peter Hale.

* * *

Derek smelled her fear. The emotion brought back to him all the dark, painful things in her memory that his uncle had ever made her feel. Coupled with the awareness that Peter had purposefully withheld mentioning this to them . . . .

The alpha saw red, Lydia's shriek of surprise echoed through the house as he hurtled past her, colliding with his uncle.


	11. Changed

For those who don't know, my 'official' first novel, _Buried _(Book One of the Paranormalville Trilogy) is due for release March 18th (barring unforeseen circumstances). Genre is YA Paranormal. Very exciting times ;D

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

Changed

An utterly inhuman howl of pain rang in Lydia's ears as Derek's teeth sank into Peter's forearm. The Hale wolves crashed to the ground so hard that Scott felt dimly surprised they didn't break through the charred old wood boards and go tumbling into the cellar.

Derek unclenched his jaw, allowing Peter to tear his arm free. "Scott, get her out of here," the alpha hollered.

Scott shook his head, pulling himself out of a bizarre, violence-fueled reverie that had lulled his inner wolf into an odd sense of complacency. Those more primal instincts told him he should simply let the Hales rip at each other.

When the pup snapped his head in Lydia's direction, he saw that she'd retreated to the farthest edge of the, now-broken, circle, her back to them as she knelt. He thoughtlessly crossed the shattered boundary and found her skimming a dusting of mountain ash off the circle's remnants.

She rose quickly and turned, nearly colliding with Scott. Covering the mountain ash in her cupped palm with her free hand, she locked surprised hazel eyes on him.

It took him a moment to realize what she planned to do. She was going to close the circle, again. But that didn't make sense; _she_ could leave it whenever she wanted . . . . It would keep them away from her though. Scott kicked himself for, once again, forgetting how intelligent the girl was.

"Scott," Derek bellowed, "Wake _up_!"

Shaking his head, Scott, grabbed Lydia by the elbow and—ignoring her protests—hurried her past the scuffling werewolves.

She wrestled out of his grip once they were outside. Of course, she realized, such a thing wouldn't be possible if he wasn't holding her lightly to begin with—werewolf strength and all that.

"I don't get you, ya know," she said vehemently as a crash sounded from somewhere inside the house.

Scott's uneven jaw went slack as they—through unspoken mutual agreement—descended the steps. He turned to face her, his eyebrows shooting into his hairline. "Me? . . . _You_ don't get _me_? You're the one that doesn't belong mixed up in all this!"

Lydia frowned darkly, mindfully ignoring her own rules about this particular facial expression. "I've _been_ 'mixed up in all this' since the moment I saw Peter in the parking lot! But it's you guys—my so-called friends—that decided _I _couldn't handle it! And you can't be bothered to help Derek when he needs help, but now he barks an order at you and you snap to?"

"He didn't come to me!" Scott realized that his inner wolf was smarter than he was. His animal instincts were what had caused him to _snap to_ at Derek's command a few moments ago. Once his rational, human-thinking digested that he would be trapped on Derek's territory unless he accepted Derek as his alpha, his wolf took over and did just that.

He'd finally, _really_, joined Derek's pack and it wasn't even a conscious decision. _Man_, being a werewolf sucked, sometimes.

"Either one of you could have told me what was going on at any time, ya know," he reminded through clenched teeth.

Her brow furrowed. "Yeah, well, we thought it was best not to tell you 'cause you get all righteous and judgey."

Scott's jaw dropped again. "Why does _everyone_ think I'm judgey?"

"And why would Derek go to you for help, anymore, anyway?" She went on, like he hadn't just had a minor eruption. "When he was being held and tortured by hunters, all you cared about was protecting Allison, who, by the way, wasn't even in danger!"

The boy backpedaled a step, his hands up in what almost appeared a sign of surrender. "Whoa, whoa! He told you about that?"

"No," she said slowly, blinking in surprise. She hadn't meant to let that slip. She now knew Derek Hale better than anyone—knew things he probably wouldn't _tell_ anyone—but she wasn't about to make it seem like Derek had just spilled his guts to her, or something.

"Then how do you know about that?"

Lydia pursed her lips, thinking for a long moment before she replied. "All you need to know is that he never said a word."

* * *

"Somebody's a touch angry," Peter said, catching his breath as he wiped blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

The incense burned out hours ago, taking the numbing effect with it. When his nephew had hurled him through that wall just now, he felt every crack of wood beneath his weight, every splinter that glanced off his skin.

"Why can't you leave her alone?" Derek seethed, his shoulders hunched, muscles trembling with the effort to control himself.

"Oh," blinking in something like surprise, Peter stood and brushed himself off. "I _can_. I chose not to."

This boggled Derek's mind, the crimson fading from his eyes as his face fell. "What?"

Peter merely shrugged—though, much to Derek's satisfaction, the maneuver was not without an obvious expression of pain gracing the older wolf's face—as he strode back to the foyer to retrieve his coffee. Frowning behind his cup as he sipped, he flexed his free arm, causing a few drops of blood to run down from the wound. "I keep forgetting you're an alpha now; I might have to get this looked at."

"Peter," Derek growled the name, irritated with the man for sidetracking.

"If you must know, Lydia presents something of a . . . temptation for me," Peter hid a grin at how his words made Derek growl again. The young man _really_ needed to stop wearing his emotions on his sleeve. "And I've always been so bad at resisting temptation."

Tipping his head back, Derek inhaled deeply before locking his gaze on Peter, his usual scowl overtaking his features. He crossed the parlor to stand directly in front his uncle. "Stay away from her."

"Or you'll what?"

Derek remained silent.

"That's right." Peter took another long sip before continuing. "You may be able to wound me, I'll heal. You can threaten me . . . as an alpha you might have me cowed for a few moments here and there, but you're not going to kill me. You may hate me, you may despise my methods, but the basic bonds of family, the knowledge that I'm all you have left, will always stay your hand."

"I've done it before."

"Because if you hadn't, Scott was going to, and your instincts refused to let someone who wasn't your blood, someone who wasn't family, take the power of alpha away from the Hales."

His expression subdued, Peter bent to pick up one of the other cups, and offered it to Derek. "You didn't kill me because you wanted to end my life; you killed me to protect a legacy. You have that now, so killing me is no longer an instinct-driven necessity."

Derek nodded slowly, digesting this as he took a sip of coffee. Too late he recognized Lydia's scent drifting up from the spot where her lips had pressed to the lid. He kept his expression neutral, uncertain if Peter had knowingly given him the wrong cup or not. The man was playing at something, he was sure, but he had no idea what that might be.

"You know, I was going to keep my distance, as I'd promised her, but, your insistence makes me think I should do quite the opposite."

"Just stay away from her," Derek said again, before snatching up the paper bag and storming toward the front door.

"You can't make me, Derek."

The alpha paused briefly, but simply shook his head and then stepped outside.

Peter smiled to himself. If only Derek realized what his uncle was trying to do for him, he might not be such a pain in the ass about it.

"Oh damn," his smile lost some of its brightness. "My breakfast was in that bag."

* * *

"He's never actually done anything wrong," Derek heard Lydia say as he closed the door.

He'd heard them bickering the entire time they'd been out here, but he'd been too focused on Peter to make sense of the words before.

"How can you say that? Don't you remember when he wanted to _kill_ you?"

A hint of agitation singed the air—Scott was pissing off Lydia. She and Derek were still relatively new facets to one another's lives, but he was fairly certain making her angry was a bad thing, even for a werewolf.

"No! That was only 'cause he thought I was the Kanima and he didn't know how else to stop it."

"Do you even hear yourself? Why do you keep defending him?" Scott's tone was bewildered.

"Well," she said, matter-of-factly, huge hazel eyes blinking rapidly, "somebody's got to with everyone else so ready to vilify him all the time. You're always trying to do the right thing, aren't you?"

Scott nodded stiffly, noticing only now that Derek was there. Stupid Hale territory. Derek's scent was all over the place, it was no wonder he hadn't registered him when the man had first stepped onto the porch.

"You may not agree with his methods, but Derek's always _tried_ to do the right thing, too. The difference is _you_ always have people backing you up and supporting you!"

A flicker of confusion crossed Scott's face. Was she right? Did he try to _make_ Derek into a bad guy? But, wait . . . .

"Lydia," he said hollowly, his gaze fixed on Derek over her head, she had yet to notice that the man stood a few feet behind her. "How do you know any of this?"

"How much did Peter tell you about what went on last night, Scott?" The alpha piped up.

Lydia was unfazed at his appearance—which must have seemed sudden, or at the very least, unannounced, to her human senses—as he strode down the steps to stand beside her.

"Peter told me enough," Scott said grudgingly. He didn't like that now that his wolf had accepted Derek's leadership, he had to force himself to maintain the standoffish demeanor he usually displayed around the older wolf.

He also didn't want to say out loud that he'd seen them in the act of lapping blood from each other's wounds . . . . That just felt so . . . _wrong_.

Derek's mouth pressed into a lopsided line as he nodded, lowering his gaze to the ground for a moment. "So he didn't tell you that there would be a side effect similar to the one you experience when you get the bite?"

Scott's brow furrowed. "What?"

Green eyes lifted, locking on brown. "He didn't tell us that, either."

"What side effect?"

"Oh," Lydia said brightly, very easily sidetracking the conversation, "is that my coffee?"

Before Derek was able to respond, she pulled the cup from his hand and took a long sip. He watched her for a moment, but looked away just as quickly, wondering if she'd spit the liquid out if she knew he drank some of it.

He could tell from Scott's face that the boy read something from his expression. However, by the uncertain arch of a single eyebrow, Derek was pretty sure Scott couldn't make heads or tails of it.

"Think, Scott. Other than just turning, other than being forced to change when he wanted to you to, what else happened to you?"

This took Scott a minute or two to think over. His gaze raked over the trees, the ground, the sky, as he picked through his recollections of what he'd been through after Peter bit him.

While they waited, Derek opened the paper bag and peeked in. Fresh bagels with cream cheese . . . . Shrugging he held the open bag toward Lydia. Brows lifting, she delicately extracted one and set to nibbling at it as Scott continued to rummage through the recesses of his mind.

So much had happened to the boy in such a short span of time that it was no wonder it took him some time to pin point the specific _side effect_. When Scott returned his attention to them, Derek and Lydia sat on the porch steps, munching on bagels. He ignored that the sight made his stomach rumble.

Derek's ear twitched, and he looked up, eyebrows lifting as he offered the open bag to Scott.

This was a _really_ weird situation, Scott thought as he joined them on the steps and fished out a bagel. "So . . . the only thing I can think of is when I saw Peter's memories."

Lydia and Derek exchanged a quick, silent look, and went on eating.

The weight of what they had put themselves through last night finally hit Scott. Did Lydia now know how it felt to lose her entire family in one tragic night? Did Derek understand what it was like to have a sociopathic former alpha co-habiting his consciousness?

Up until a few weeks ago, they'd known no more about each other than their names, and maybe what was said _about_ them by others. But now? With her readiness to defend Derek and how Derek tore into Peter after a flicker of trepidation from her, Scott had to guess that they'd both witnessed more than he could imagine.

"C'mon, I'll drive you guys home," Derek said, and Lydia rose, automatically, to follow him to the car.

Frowning, Scott checked his phone as he trailed after them—it would be a tight squeeze, but he could manage. "Ah, crap. Lydia?"

"Hmm?" She blinked at him over the roof of the car as she went to the passenger-side door.

"It's Friday morning. 10 a.m., Friday morning. We're missing school."

She groaned and hung her head, but didn't reply.

They drove in tense silence for a few minutes before Derek decided to drop Peter's words on her.

"I don't understand," she said in a quiet little voice. "What is wrong with him?"

"I couldn't begin to tell you," the alpha grumbled.

"You said . . ." her voice shook a little, drawing a quick, troubled glance from Derek, which—much to his chagrin, Scott caught sight of in the rearview mirror—"you said you'd keep him away from me."

"I don't know how to protect you from him, not if he can get to you anywhere."

Scott shook his head, speaking thoughtlessly. "Not unless you're with her, like, all the time."

A long, strained silence filled the car as they all realized Scott was right.

"All the time?" Lydia echoed.

Derek only glanced at her again as he awaited the impending argument.


	12. Awkward Distractions

**Chapter Twelve**

Awkward Distractions

Hazel eyes rolled in exasperation. "Well, c'mon, then!"

Scott, standing beside Derek's car, glanced at the alpha across the roof. Derek's eyes rolled, as well, before he shook his head and slammed the driver's side door.

They agreed they needed to brainstorm and come up with what to do about the Peter-Lydia situation, without losing focus on the issue of the strangely quiet Alpha Pack. After all, what was the point of last night's ritual to safeguard Derek's territory if Derek wouldn't set foot there because it would drop Lydia right in front of Peter?

Even so, the man seemed reluctant to follow her into her house as he dragged his booted feet to climb the porch steps.

This was going to be a _fun_ day.

As he trooped into the spacious, lavishly decorated living room behind them, Scott felt a tiny, zinging jolt in his spine. He didn't immediately understand the source until he noticed the way Derek stood. Shoulders hunched, back pin-straight, the older male's eyebrows shot up as his gaze roved about.

Scott's wolf was responding to his alpha's emotional state. He'd thought it before, now he thought it again: sometimes being a werewolf sucked.

"You kissed her?"

Lydia and Scott exchanged a wide-eyed glance. At least now Scott knew what that look was—one of Lydia's memories had run through Derek's mind. His own experience with Peter's memories taught him that the recollections could sneak up at any time. There was no telling how long it would be until they witnessed all the memories they held of one another. This could go on for days . . . .

Or longer.

Regardless, Derek seemed bothered by this new knowledge. It felt like it happened so long ago that Scott hadn't remembered the incident until now. And from the shock in Lydia's enormous hazel eyes, that she'd forgotten, as well, was plainly obvious.

Scott held up his hands, needing to set the record straight. "No! She kissed me."

Lydia's lips folded inward as she cleared her throat. She wouldn't meet Derek's gaze, Scott noticed, as she flipped her bangs off her forehead with the back of her hand. "It was nothing," even as she spoke the words, though, she wondered why she felt the need to defend the situation to Derek. It _was_ nothing, and it was a while ago.

And she and Derek were_ just_ friends.

"Nothing," Derek echoed, nodding as he offered a thoughtful frown. He didn't know why he'd even mentioned it-neither of them owed him an explanation.

She rolled her eyes. "Jackson and I just broke up, Scott was besting him in_ so _many ways, and he'd just put his life on the line going to face Peter alone that night he trapped us in the school." It made sense to her, knowing herself as she did, that Scott would be more appealing the further he dethroned Jackson from the role of King of the School. "I just prefer the alpha-male type, I guess."

Derek's eyebrows shot up, as did Scott's.

Clearly realizing what she said only _after_ the words fell out of her mouth, she at last snapped her gaze upward to lock eyes with Derek. "I didn't mean that the way it sounds."

The alpha nodded. "No, of course."

"It's just a term."

He nodded again, shrugging. "I got it."

"Um, both of you just . . . sit somewhere." She was determined to move past the bizarre moment her own stupid, trouble-causing memories stirred up. "I'm going to go take a shower. Don't touch anything."

Derek seemed about to say something—perhaps he was insulted with her last point, or with the way she flippantly moved on—but Lydia turned at that moment to face him and caught his expression.

"My mother's neurotic, she'll notice if anything's not _exactly_ how she left it."

With a sigh, the alpha simply nodded a final time and took a seat on the sofa. Scott, feeling terribly out of place, followed suit, sitting in an armchair on the other side of the coffee table.

Nodding in response, she spun on her heel and bounced up the stairs.

Derek watched her for a moment. He hadn't noticed before, but Lydia Martin had the greatest ass.

His own thinking hit him like a brick to the temple and he shook his head, immediately dropping his gaze to the floor. Lydia was his friend, he shouldn't be thinking of her that way. Even if it was true.

_Damn it!_

Once the wolves heard her bedroom door close, Scott rested his elbows on his knees, his voice hushed. "We have to figure out what to do about Peter."

Frowning, Derek leaned back against the sofa cushion, folding his arms across his chest as he put a heel up on the coffee table, casually crossing his legs at the ankles. "Gee, Scott, why hadn't I thought of that? The whole point of being here is to think of something."

Despite his snark, he was glad for the chance to focus on something besides Lydia kissing Scott. He didn't want to think about her kissing _anyone._

No, that wasn't what he meant.

He wanted not to think about Lydia, in general, right now, 'cause she was distracting. Yes, that was it. Very, very distracting, watching her walk up those steps just now, in that it reminded him of how they woke up this morning . . . of how she moved against him as she stretched in his lap.

Derek repressed a growl at himself. He shouldn't be thinking _any_ of this.

And he probably wouldn't even have noticed her ass if Peter hadn't directed his attention to _other_ parts of her that day she'd showed up at the Hale house and started this entire mess. So she had rack, so what?

A nice rack, now that he—

_Dammit!_

Scowling, the pup simply went on, deciding it best to ignore the alpha's attitude, the way he wished he could ignore the last few—spectacularly uncomfortable—moments that had taken place. "Well, she was safe in the circle."

Pursing his lips, Derek nodded. "She was, but she can't _live_ in a circle. And we can't very well roll the woman in mountain ash, can we?"

Scott's posture stiffened a bit.

Derek arched an eyebrow, noting the younger werewolf's reaction. "What?"

"You just called Lydia a _woman_ instead of a girl."

Derek's face fell. How was it possible that Scott missed huge clues right in front of his face, but picked up on nuances anyone else would have overlooked?

He let it go unsaid that he hadn't noticed his own wording—girl, woman, what did it matter? She was a female, wasn't she? "So?"

Scott was at a loss. He couldn't pinpoint quite why the difference caught his attention, he only knew it _had_. Perhaps there was some connotation to the word when Derek said it, or some other weird wolfy-thing—like a pheromone shift, or some subtle bit of body language—that caused the moment to stand out in Scott's mind.

"I don't know," Scott at last said with a shrug.

This time, he couldn't blame Derek when the man gave an exhausted roll of his eyes.

* * *

Lydia peeled her clothes off and started the shower, sighing heavily as she met her reflection's gaze in the mirror. She had bags under her eyes. Weird. She didn't actually feel tired.

Quite the contrary, she felt . . . rested. Like she must've slept well last night . . . . In Derek Hale's arms.

Drawing a deep, startled breath, she shook her head at herself. She didn't mean that. She felt safe in the _circle_ 'cause it proved to be the one place where Peter couldn't reach her, Derek just so happened to be there with her, that was all.

That _had _to be all.

Lydia stepped into the hot, pulsing streams of water and let them pour over her, relaxing her muscles, but doing precious little to clear her head of Derek Hale-centric thoughts. She shampooed her hair a bit more roughly than she meant to as she thought over the simple fact that he was her _friend_. She didn't want to do, say, think, or even feel anything that would jeopardize that.

This was all probably a silly, passing thought anyway. It was something brought up by the awkwardness born from them spending the night cuddled up together.

Only it hadn't felt awkward until her little slip of the tongue a few moments ago in the living room.

Besides, there was no way Derek would ever see her in that sort of light, she considered, rinsing the shampoo from her hair as she worked soap lather over her skin. Lydia closed her eyes, letting her head fall back under the warm, steady droplets.

No, she reasoned again, he would never—never, ever, _ever_—think of her in any context that would make her observation about herself and alpha-male-types matter.

_Never_, Lydia reiterated as she trailed the tips of her fingers over her hips and up along her sides.

So then . . . there was no harm in imagining that these were Derek's hands moving over her skin.

. . . No harm in pretending that he stood behind her under the pulsing streams of hot water as they dripped down her body, as she dragged her hands slowly lower.

* * *

"What is the deal with you two, anyway?" Scott finally asked, figuring that perhaps he wouldn't feel so uncomfortable if he actually knew where Derek and Lydia stood with one another.

Derek shrugged, resting his head back and closing his eyes. Scott was such a stubborn brat, sometimes. He knew the pup wasn't going to let this go until he had some semblance of an answer.

"The _deal_ is that we're all pack, now, and we need to get used to each other."

Scott nodded slowly, absorbing that idea. He supposed that made sense. After all, as far as he was aware, Derek and Lydia didn't know each other very well. Suddenly having her as part of the pack was likely going to take some adjustment.

"Wait . . . ." Did Derek just say what Scott _thought _he just said? "Lydia is pack? But she's human. Can humans be part of a werewolf pack?"

"Humans that have a connection to werewolves. Dammit, Scott, don't you ever listen to me?"

"I listen," Scott replied in automated defense. "Uh . . . when did you tell me that?"

Derek lifted his head, and raised his lids simply to grace Scott with an eye roll. "About two seconds before we all saw that Jackson was the Kanima. I _told_ you that Allison and Stiles were your pack."

Scott allowed himself a second to recall that moment, but Derek was right—he had said that. "Oh. I just thought you were being an ass."

Strangely, Derek couldn't help but laugh at that. He knew he could be a little . . . rough around the edges at times, but it was sort of refreshing to be able to have a relaxed exchange with Scott.

It so often seemed that they—he and this kid he once called his brother—only interacted when shit was about to hit the fan.

"Lydia and I are just friends. We're getting used to being in each other's lives, is all," Derek said finally, dropping his head back, again.

Until a bizarre little keening noise from upstairs caused his head to snap right back up.

It was muffled, barely detectable from the second floor, beyond closed doors, and under that constant, spattering thrum of the shower. He glanced briefly at Scott, whose face puckered with determination, as they both listened for the sound.

A few seconds passed, leaving Derek to think it was nothing, but it happened again. . . . And again.

His lungs seemed to shut down for a moment as he realized what they heard. Moaning . . . _Lydia_ moaning. While she was alone . . . in the shower.

The alpha determinedly forced his mind away from recalling his earlier notice of her feminine attributes. _No, I can't think of her that way_, he told himself.

His wolf growled inwardly at him. _Not can't,_ it said quietly, anger and something darker, something richer, running beneath the words. _Won't._

That wasn't what bothered him, though. Not really. What bothered Derek was the look on Scott's face. The pup's brown eyes widened, his cheeks reddening instantly as he, quite obviously, grasped what they were hearing.

It was an absolutely ridiculous reaction, but Derek felt like he didn't want Scott to hear this. Not just Scott, though, he simply didn't want _anyone_ else to listen to Lydia making these sort of sounds.

Derek shook his head. Now _he_ was being ridiculous! He didn't care about her curves, or her huge hazel eyes, or those pouty lips, and he certainly wasn't going to pay any more attention to whatever she might be doing up there. He was supposed to figure out how he was going to keep his uncle away from her.

Though, he had to grudgingly admit, he was beginning to get Peter's fascination with her.

"I'm open to suggestions," he finally said, drawing confused brown eyes to his.

". . . Huh?"

Derek's expression darkened so quickly that Scott actually flinched and shrunk back into the chair.

He couldn't understand why Derek was angry with him all of the sudden. It wasn't his fault that the sound of a girl moaning was distracting. Besides, the sound had died away now, and Lydia had turned the shower off, so she would be back down here soon, anyway.

_Could it be that he's mad 'cause I'm _here_? Nah,_ Scott thought. Derek being grumpy was just Derek being Derek. If the fairy tale was Snow White and the Seven Werewolves, Derek would be cast as Grumpy, no doubt.

Scott ignored his own inner-chiding that he would make a suitable Dopey. After all, they'd have to rename one of the Dwarf-Werewolves as Sneaky for Peter's sake, anyway.

Derek _forced_ himself to stay on track. "About the Peter situation?"

"I don't know," Scott said with a shrug. "I mean, I could talk to Deaton."

Green eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Derek shook his head as he pursed his lips. "Maybe, but I'm not sure I want to involve any more people than necessary. We've got enough to deal with."

Scott chewed the inside of his cheek as he thought about that. "Well, we have a solution, or at least a band aid on the alpha-pack situation. We'll just see if he can help in any way with maybe some kind of . . . I don't know ward, or barrier or whatever it is between Peter and Lydia."

"Maybe," Derek muttered, not totally sold on the idea.

"We have to do something. You're right, she can't live in a circle, and you can't be around her _all_ the time to protect her."

"He can if arrangements are made," Lydia said as she climbed down the stairs, clicking a button on the cordless house phone in her hand.

She was hanging up. They wolves had managed to successfully distract themselves for a few moments—neither of them had a clue who she'd just spoke to.

She stared at Scott, as though she refused to acknowledge anything else in the living room right now. "I have an idea, but it's going to be tricky."

Derek, for his part, was trying to look at her with objective eyes. Even so, it was hard to ascribe any word to her other than adorable as she stood on the last step, her long hair hanging in damp, loosely-combed tendrils around her shoulders, her face bright and fresh-scrubbed. The clingy, low-cut pink sweater, and black-and-pink plaid pleated mini-skirt she wore, paired with Hello Kitty fuzzy slippers, didn't help.

"What idea?" Scott asked, having a dreadful feeling he didn't like where this was going.

"I spoke with the school and told them I needed time off to deal with a family problem. Well, I pretended to be my mother and told them_ Lydia_ needed time. I'm going to school at dismissal to pick up make up assignments for next week. My dad has a vacation house just outside of Beacon Hills that he never uses this time of year. If we cover our scents, by going there in a mode of transportation we wouldn't normally use, like a city bus, or something. We can lose Peter and hole up there for a few days."

"What's tricky about that?"

Scott was glad Derek asked, the pup thought he might have missed something.

Her gaze flickered from Scott's, but rather than meeting Derek's, she looked at the floor. "We don't know what the Alpha-pack is up to. We don't know who they are, or where they are. They could be watching us right now."

Derek's expression became pinched. Of course, she was right. They could have been watching them last night.

"We might be able to throw Peter off, but we can't account for _them. _We go to the vacation house and . . . we safeguard it like we did your territory."

"You want to do the ritual again?"

Lydia took a deep breath, rolling her eyes. "I don't_ want_ to, but right now, it's the only thing we _know_ will keep them off your back. This is the tricky part. Scott, I need you to get Peter's laptop for me."

Scott's face fell. "You want me to what?"

"Lydia?" Derek said from his place on the sofa. "Are you sure about this?"

Reluctantly, she looked at the alpha. "I can't think of anything else, and from the lack of _eureka_ expressions on your faces when I came down here, I doubt you've got any better ideas."

It was a terrible idea, actually, she knew it was. It made logical sense, sure, but putting herself alone with Derek in a big, empty house? And after what she'd just imagined of him, too?

She was so stupid! She was going to totally and single-handedly destroy the friendship they were forming.

But she couldn't help herself. It had been such a_ nice_ daydream.

Her cheeks flooded with color as she realized what she was thinking while looking at Derek. That instantly led into the thought that she stood in a room with _werewolves_. They had supernatural-canine senses. Did thinking about Derek in the shower cause a change in her scent that they could detect?

For that matter had they heard . . . ? No, no, they couldn't have—she had the shower on full blast at the time.

Her gaze skittered anxiously from one wolf to the other and back again.

At her the sight of her blushing, Scott couldn't _not_ look to Derek. The alpha, in turn, sank his teeth into his bottom lip and forced a scowl.

Unfortunately, Derek's _try not to give anything away_ expression offered Lydia all the confirmation she needed.

"Oh my God," she squeaked, wide-eyed, before clamping her hands over her mouth.

She took a moment to collect herself, during which Derek made another concerted effort to look everywhere but at her, or Scott, for that matter, and then announced, "I'm going to go pack some things for my father's house and think of what excuse to give my mother. You two _stay _down here!"

For a human, the last sentence that fell from Lydia's lips sounded frighteningly close to a growl. As though it was their fault for having inhuman senses.

Scott hated thinking, now, as he watched her tromp up the steps. Officially hated it. Not only had he been suddenly tasked with stealing Peter Hale's laptop, but he noticed that she only started blushing like that, only started giving off an inviting scent, when she looked at Derek. He noticed how Derek's eyes followed her form while she stomped her way to the second floor.

What on earth was he going to tell Stiles about this mess?


	13. Raw

**Chapter Thirteen**

Raw

"Well, I just need time," Lydia whined into her cell as Derek pulled up to the school. "Mother, you haven't been listening! I have been through too much recently, I just need a few days to myself. Let me take them and stop making a fuss!"

The wolves easily heard Mrs. Martin's soft-voiced protests on the other end of the line the entire call. Even knowing Lydia had convinced an older cousin who lived outside of Beacon Hills to cover for her—the story being that Lydia would crash at her place for a few days, get her head on straight, and return— Scott prepared for an earful from the girl's mother. After all, his mom would give him no end of grief were he ever to take that kind of authoritative tone with her, werewolf, or not.

Instead, what came through the phone was the plaintive tone of someone consenting.

Then, again, he reminded himself, he was no Lydia Martin.

"Thank you, Mommy! Kisses." Lydia closed the call, shaking her head as she dropped her iPhone into her tiny shoulder bag—her pink-and-tan tote was in the trunk, next to a duffle bag which, Scott and Lydia both assumed, was where Derek kept a stash of clean changes of clothes and a half-busted razor.

Derek's eyebrows lifted as he turned to meet her gaze. "Mommy?"

"You have your bullying tactics, and I have mine," she said, her syrupy-sweet Queen Bitch smile plastered across her face. They didn't need to know how much she resisted the urge to simply tell him to shut up and stick her tongue out at him.

"I'm just going to run in and grab my assignments. With any luck, I'll be back _before_ classes let out."

Without waiting for responses, she threw open the passenger-side door and slipped out of the car.

Sick of feeling cramped in the sports car's non-existent backseat, Scott squeezed forward and settled in Lydia's place. He knew she'd shoo him into the back again with no more than a withering glare the moment she returned, but he just needed a few minutes to breathe.

Scott was supposed to go with them to the bus station, so he would know which route to go to follow them later-after he had Peter's laptop. The crowd would cover their scents, and the number of buses going in and out would leave any possible trackers scratching their heads. He hated to admit it, but Lydia had come up with a good plan.

He could do without the bit about his taking over Peter's part in the ritual by learning the chant and marking a boundary around Mr. Martin's summer house, but he had the sinking feeling they'd all entered the area of What Choice Do We Have.

He tried not to watch Derek as the alpha's eyes followed her, but even as Derek tried to be subtle about it, the direction of his gaze was painfully obvious. At least to Scott, but then that might simply due to the spectacularly awkward realizations he'd been forced to make at Lydia's house.

Well, that, and subtlety wasn't exactly Dereks' forte.

"So . . ." the pup started after the school doors closed behind her. "We're just . . . not going to talk about whatever the hell that was at her house?"

Derek didn't budge—he didn't even blink. "Nope."

Nodding, Scott turned his head to look out the side window. "Okay."

* * *

"Thank you," Lydia said sweetly to the new school secretary, who's name she never quite got, and tucked the hefty manila envelope under her arm.

As she exited the general office, the bell rang for dismissal. She hid a sudden frown, once more plastering her usual icy and carefree grin in place. The crowd that began to flood the corridor was exactly the thing she wanted to avoid. Sure, her phenomenally awesome birthday party had helped, somewhat, to reestablish her within the school's hierarchy, but she wasn't certain her recently patched-up reputation would handle the sight of her climbing into Derek Hale's car.

Then again, she considered, she was Beacon Hill's most well-known spoiled princess, and he its most notorious bad boy. Plus he was hot. Her cheeks flamed a little. _Really_ hot. It was a totally believable, typical, small-town-America scenario for her classmates to _think_ Lydia Martin might be hooking up with Derek Hale.

Though, she felt now that she knew him—despite that he had the appearance _and _bad attitude to make the impression fit—he was mislabeled. Regardless, perhaps her reputation would be bolstered, rather than hindered by what would probably be viewed as her experiencing completely natural teenage rebellion.

All the while that she focused on the outward appearance, a little voice in the back of her mind meanly echoed things about Derek's hotness.

Nodding determinedly to herself—and pointedly shushing that stupid little voice—Lydia defiantly lifted her chin and flounced through the noisy, crowded hall. Yes, clearly some of her position had been restored, she noted, as people cleared the way for her, tossing smiles at her.

She was almost out the door, incident free . . . until she nearly collided with someone, face-first.

"Allison," Lydia said, going wide-eyed. "You're back, on a Friday! How . . . special."

Allison offered a weak grin, still horribly ashamed of her behavior in the wake of her mother's death. "Hey," she hugged the other girl lightly, knowing how ridiculous it seemed to try to start back to school on the last day of the week, but if she was going to begin apologizing and making amends, she thought it best to jump right in as soon as she felt up to it.

"Yeah, um I know I have a lot of explaining to do," the brunette murmured, as she pulled back, her hands lingering on her friend's upper arms. "Let me start by saying I'm so sorry for . . . everything."

_Wow, people in my life have _crappy_ timing_, Lydia thought as she forced a smile. "You know what? It's okay. You lost your mom and your aunt, I totally get it."

Allison bit her lip, shaking her head as she looked around at the cluster of students around them, filing out the doors. "It's not just that. I . . ." she shook her head again, releasing Lydia's arm to push her hair behind her ear. "Listen, can we just go hang out maybe, and talk?"

Lydia wanted to cave, to tell her friend sure, to forgive her for being such a crappy friend of late. But Derek was waiting.

No, no that wasn't what she meant. She had to get out of here so they could get to their supposed refuge. Also the sentiment—that Lydia should make time for _a talk_ when she'd been afforded no such courtesy—falling from Allison's lips touched a nerve.

Lydia held up a finger. "Wait, when I needed to talk you constantly brushed me off, and now you want me to just drop what I'm doing so I can listen to you?"

Allison flinched like she'd been slapped and took a step back. "Wha-? Lydia you know I was only trying—"

"Trying, trying, trying," Lydia said with a harsher-than-she-meant-it-to-be laugh. "Everyone was trying. To help me, or protect me, or save me. You all _tried_, too bad no one ever actually _did, _maybe then nothing would have happened to me and I wouldn't have to know _anything_, just like everybody wanted."

Allison's bottom lip trembled, and her dark eyes got misty, but she held back from showing any more emotion than that.

The hint of pain, however, was all Lydia needed to see. She knew Allison was tough on the outside, a cold, hardened hunter of werewolves, but on the inside she was mush. Allison Argent was emotionally the most vulnerable creature she knew.

And because Lydia was weak on the outside, they all thought she needed protecting—even when it meant lying to her face. But she had bounced back from every horrible, traumatizing thing these past several months had thrown at her. If they'd all been paying attention, they might realize that she might actually be stronger than any of them.

She was Lydia Martin, and she had a raw, emotional strength for which none of them ever gave her credit.

But Allison was _not _her. They'd both been emotionally and mentally ripped to shreds recently. Allison crumbled each time, falling to a darker part of herself, while Lydia put herself back together, time and again, and trooped on.

And Allison was still hurting. Lydia wanted to reach out to the other girl, but this was simply the worst timing of anything, ever.

Taking a breath, she schooled her features, trying to emphasize with a hardened stare that she had something important to do. "Look, I simply don't have time _right now_, but we'll talk soon. I'll call you when I can."

"When you can? Lydia—" Allison called as Lydia finally disappeared out the door.

She hurried down the steps. Luckily, just as everyone had parted in the hall for her, they also kept a wise distance from Derek's shiny black car. Without waiting for any signal from her, Scott crammed himself into the back once more, and she hopped into the passenger side seat.

Derek peeled off as soon as she closed the door, but Scott turned at the last minute, catching a glimpse of his ex-girlfriend out of the back window. Worse, still, was the spectacle of Stiles bolting out the door, falling all over himself as he tried to stop on a dime beside Allison.

Scott watched—in something like morbid fascination—as Allison, her beautiful dark eyes following the car, said something to Stiles. The horror-stricken expression on Stiles' face mirrored Scott's feelings as the boy turned to watch the vehicle before it disappeared from their line of sight.


	14. Avoidance Issues

**Chapter Fourteen**

Avoidance Issues

"Answer it, already," Derek all but growled, his fingers tightly gripping the steering wheel.

Scott had put his phone on vibrate and buried it beneath him in his back pocket. Despite such efforts, the irritating thrum of it going off again, and again, was quite audible to their canine hearing. Frowning, the boy pulled the phone out and stared at the name of the caller. Not that he needed to, they all knew who it would be.

"But it's _Stiles_."

"So?"

Scott only stammered for a moment. He looked at Lydia, though he wasn't entirely certain why he might think to find any assistance from her. The girl appeared absorbed in her Kindle.

"Well, I . . . don't know what to tell him," he finally admitted.

"Tell him everything," Lydia replied with a shrug, though she didn't look up from her reading.

That would be far easier if he knew what _everything_ actually was. All this unspoken whatever-it-was between Derek and Lydia was a detail Scott wasn't sure he could explain if he tried.

And hadn't they wanted to not include too many people?

Doubtful, he glanced at the alpha. No help there, as the only change to Derek's face was the curiosity-driven arch of an eyebrow. Clearly, the man was waiting for her to elaborate, as well.

When she received no response—and the phone went off again—she at last looked up from the device in her hand. The wolves both wore blank expressions. Honestly, sometimes it seemed as though she was the only person in Beacon Hills with a functioning brain.

"Obviously, you want to tell him, anyway, otherwise you would have turned _off _your phone, like I did, so I don't have to consciously avoid Allison's calls." She put a lot of effort into not rolling her eyes at him. "Getting Peter's laptop will be easier if there's something—or someone—to distract him."

Realization finally broke over Scott's scruffy head. "You want me to what? Dangle Stiles out in front of him? No, I'm not putting him in that kind of danger!" He let the word _again_ go unspoken. It was pointed out, far too many times as of late, that Stiles was _often_ in danger because of him, and that was a pattern he wanted to put a stop to.

This time, those hazel eyes did roll at him. "No. I meant _you _distract Peter, while Stiles gets the laptop."

Scott allowed that a moment to sink in. "Oh."

"That does make more sense," Derek mused, his eyes on the road. "If he figures out what's going on and gets violent, he could rip Stiles to shreds. You can handle him."

"I can handle Peter?" There was a heavy note of uncertainty in Scott's voice as he echoed the words.

"Yeah," Derek replied simply, like it was the most obvious point in the world. "He fell to beta the moment he came back. And I'm not sure he's even fully recovered from, ya know, the whole being dead thing. You could probably easily take him in a fight, if you needed to." He flicked a meaningful look at the pup. "But let's try not to have it get that far."

"Why not?"

"'Cause he's up to something, and I want to know what it is. Can't find out if you get it in your head to take out the past on him."

"So what's the plan?" He looked expectantly to Lydia, since she was the one with the ideas.

She sighed heavily, apparently aggravated at being interrupted from her reading once more. Not that it mattered, they were about to pull into the parking area of the bus depot. "Once we're on our way, you call Stiles. Tell him everything. Ask for his help, simple."

"Simple?" Scott's eyebrows shot up his forehead.

Derek parked the car before turning in his seat to hold a finger up. "Don't let him tell Allison _anything_."

Scott's mouth dropped open, but Derek went on. "We can't have the Argents finding out about the alpha-pack. Not yet, not like this."

"Okay, alright, I got it." _I think._ "What about Peter? What if he . . ." unsure of exactly how to say it, Scott took a page from the former alpha's book, "pulls a Peter Hale and tries to trick information out of me?"

"I'm your alpha now. Your instinct will be to protect me from threats if you can. Peter is a threat."

"But is he really?" Scott couldn't help voicing the thought. "I mean, if he's weak, and he 'fell to beta' then shouldn't you be able to—"

Derek got in Scott's face, the familiar crimson glow flooding his eyes as he clenched his teeth. "Peter Hale is a threat to me," he said slowly, his tone lethal.

Scott felt his own eyes flare yellow in response as he forced a nod.

Lydia, watching the exchange, shrank back against the passenger side door. She had the fleeting thought that this must be how cornered rabbits feel.

Derek noticed her retreat from the corner of his eye, smelled the sour twinge of her fear winding through the air. He pulled back from the pup, drew a deep breath, and then turned to look at her, his eyes reverting to their human green shade.

"Let's go," she squeaked, too unnerved to bother covering her discomfort. Clearing her throat awkwardly, she unlatched her seatbelt and got out of the car.

Pocketing his car keys, Derek followed suit, leaving Scott a moment to shake off the clear, though minute, display of dominance. He didn't like that the man was able to play on his primal, pack-related instincts that way, but until this mess was resolved, one way or another, there wasn't much he could do about it.

By the time he climbed out of the vehicle to join them, Lydia and Derek had already retrieved their bags from the trunk.

The walk across the parking lot was quiet and tense, but Scott didn't imagine there was anything any one of them could say that would make this situation less tense.

"Does she understand that she's pack, now?" . . . And then his mouth went and had a _mind of its own_ moment.

They both halted, and Scott stopped short behind them. Derek's shoulders bunched as he cracked his neck.

She pivoted on a heel to look up at the alpha. "Is he serious?"

Derek sucked his teeth, glancing around before returning her gaze. "Yes."

She blinked rapidly as she processed this information. At first she shook her head, but then, after a moment of pursing her lips, simply nodded and said briskly, "Fine, then."

Lydia didn't like the idea of suddenly being pack, of being tied to Derek Hale by some concept of animal instinct that she didn't understand-she was already having enough trouble managing their connection to one another-but she wasn't certain there was anything to be done about it, at least not at the moment. Maybe this pack business was a good thing, under the circumstances. Perhaps it meant that he would take protecting her from Peter seriously. He certainly seemed to, as it was.

Derek was surprised with how well she took that. He found it a little darkly amusing, in a completely self-deprecating way, that he'd not realized—until the words fell out of Scott's mouth—that he'd been avoiding telling her. Yet, here she was, calm and collected, with no underlying whiff of anger coming off her, as she simply turned and continued walking toward the depot.

They were silent again, until they reached the ticket booth. Lydia produced a surprisingly fat little wallet from her tiny purse and paid for the tickets in cash. Scott was pretty sure she was a gold card girl. He watched the transaction in silence, but he supposed that his expression, when she turned to hand him his ticket, spoke volumes.

She didn't furnish him with an explanation until they were out of earshot of the attendant in the ticket booth. "Peter's tech savvy. If I buy them with a credit card, that leaves a trail he can trace if he knows where to look. Same reason I disabled the GPS tracking on my phone," she finished with a knowing, syrupy grin.

Scott looked over the ticket—it was good for twenty-four hours, giving him a day to get the laptop. He wasn't sure he needed an entire day to do this, but it didn't hurt to not have the added pressure of a time-crunch on him.

"You know, Lydia, it's a little scary sometimes how smart you are."

She gave a light, carefree shrug. "I'd like to think under the right circumstances, I'd make a fantastic super-villain."

"Lucky us that we already have enough of those, then," Derek quipped as he dropped his duffel onto a bench and took a seat.

"Scott, give me your phone," she demanded, holding a dainty hand out.

"Huh?" He looked at her blankly for a second before understanding that it would be pointless for her phone's tracking to be disabled if his could lead Peter right to them, anyway. "Oh, right."

As he handed it over, he realized something. "I've never seen you with a cellphone."

Derek simply shook his head as he brought his gaze to Scott's. "Who would I call?"

Well, that was true. Since returning to Beacon Hills, Derek's social interactions were limited to battling hunters, trying to keep the local supernatural population in check in his own way, and avoiding his uncle's machinations. Of course, that last point wasn't one he was terribly good at, as here they were in a mess because of one of Peter Hale's schemes.

Well, that could also be blamed on the former alpha's bizarre fascination with Lydia.

"We got lucky," she said lightly as she handed him back his phone. "Next bus is in fifteen minutes. I saved my number to your contact list. Don't call me 'til you're on the bus with laptop."

"Won't the laptop have some way of being traced?"

"I'm thinking Peter would have disabled that as soon as he got it to keep anyone from locating it, or him _through_ it."

That did sound like a Peter Hale thing to do, Scott considered. "And then what?"

She shrugged again. "I'll tell you when you call."

Scott nodded, impressed in spite of himself. She was doing all she could to cover their bases—the less he knew, the less information there would be for him to spill to anyone.

"You know Stiles might insist on coming with me," he pointed out as he folded up the ticket and tucked it carefully behind his student ID, figuring it the least obvious place for anyone to look.

"Then he'll just have to buy his own bus ticket," she replied as she took a seat beside Derek on the bench and put her feet up on her tote.

"Um, okay. I'm just . . . gonna go, then." Scott backpedaled a few steps before he stopped again. "I have to walk home from here?"

"No, you're going to call Stiles and say you need to explain in person. Have him come pick you up." She pointed to the door of the depot, toward the parking lot. "Out there. By the time he gets here, we'll be on our way."

Scott only nodded and turned on a heel, putting the bizarre spectacle of Lydia Martin and Derek Hale sitting side-by-side on a bus depot bench, behind him.

Lydia watched over her shoulder until Scott disappeared out the doors. "So, that was some show you put on in the car," she said quietly.

Derek —who even sat like he was angry, she mused, always folding his arms, as though if he didn't keep his hands tucked in he might wring people's necks at random —simply looked at her. "I told you _I_ would do what I could to keep you safe. I can't make that guarantee of Scott. He'd try, that's just who he is, but that just might not be enough. If the wolf part of him believes that Peter is a threat to _me_, then he'll do everything in his power to protect me. That protects _you_."

"Huh," was all Lydia said before she turned and faced boarding area, again.

Here she thought she was the smartest person in the room, and yet she had missed something that, now that it was pointed out, should have been blatantly obvious to her.

She wasn't sure if she was underestimating Derek's intelligence, or underestimating how far he would go protect her.

* * *

Scott didn't call Stiles until he was in the middle of the parking lot. He didn't like all this cloak-and-dagger crap. It made him feel like, even though he was about to be completely honest, he was still hiding something.

* * *

Stiles just sat in the driver's side of his Jeep, blinking rapidly as he struggled to keep his eyes on the road.

"And when I have the laptop, I go catch the bus and call her," Scott said, feeling a huge weight slip off his shoulders now that he wasn't keeping anything from his best friend.

Well, almost anything. He hadn't told him about those fantastically awkward moments in Lydia's house.

"You know I'm going with you, right?"

Scott's face scrunched up at the determination in his friend's voice. "I figured you'd say that, but you're really not gonna want to see this ritual."

Stiles gave Scott such a dark look that the pup was almost frightened. "We're trying to keep Lydia safe, right? That's what this is all about?"

"Well, then there's the whole Derek and the alpha-pack thing," Scott reminded with a cringe.

Stiles nodded, his expression still severe. "Right, but keeping these alphas off Derek's back will help him keep Lydia safe, right?"

"Well, yeah."

The boy pulled up alongside one of the pathways that lead into the Beacon Hills Preserve and cut the engine. He turned to look at Scott. "Then I'm going," he said, an edge of finality in his voice, before he climbed out of the Jeep and began tromping into the woods.

* * *

Derek looked at his hole-punched ticket. Two more stops before they reached their destination. Lydia had assured him that her father's property—beachfront, with no neighbors in screaming distance—was an ideally suited location. There would be no need to worry about a neighbor calling local security or cops about Scott prowling around the house as he lined the perimeter with the mixture from the ritual.

He wasn't comfortable at all with the notion of going through that ritual again, but they didn't have any other options that she could see. And she had pointed out that if what Peter said about needing the current moon phase was true, then they only had two days left. Make that one—the sun would be setting soon, and he doubted Scott would make it to the house in time to do anything tonight.

Which meant he would be alone in some strange house tonight. Just . . . him and Lydia. He was being ridiculous. It would be fine—she said it was a big house. They could probably be there for hours without having to trip over each other once.

The scenery flying past his window was nothing but dense foliage. That was a comfort, at least, he'd be surrounded by woods and ocean; that put his wolf at ease.

A soft weight fell on his shoulder and he looked down to see the top of Lydia's strawberry-blonde head. He ignored that from the way she leaned, he could see clear down the front of her clingy pink sweater. Nope, he didn't just look.

It was only a glimpse to check her breathing—to verify that she'd fallen asleep.

He returned his attention to the scenery, but couldn't focus on it as the little old woman sitting across from them caught his attention from the corner of his eye.

The little old bitty was staring at them.

Derek could only stare back, feeling his eyebrows draw together.

The bus pulled into a stop and she struggled out of her seat. She leaned toward him just a little as she stood in the aisle. "You two are such an adorable couple."

He opened his mouth to explain that they were not a couple, but she'd already turned away and began hobbling her way off the bus.

Holding in a sigh, he shook his head and simply returned his attention to watching the trees out the window. They _weren't _a couple. That was ridiculous.

He ignored the old woman's statement made him want to wonder what, exactly, they _were_ to each other. The term _friends _applied now, but Derek had the sinking feeling that at some point, that word simply wasn't going to cut it.


	15. Determination

**Author's Note: **Heads up, _Once Upon a Time_ watchers. I may soon be writing a Emma/Hook fic! . . . If a decent storyline comes to me. So, fingers crossed :) (I haven't read through this chapter for typos or other errors, so if you come across any, kindly ignore them, I will fix them all when I have a moment to do so. *heart*

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

Determination

"If he hasn't moved it since this morning, then the laptop should still be right out in the open," Scott explained in a whisper as he crept through the woods beside Stiles.

"And I pack up the rest of the stuff that's just . . . lying around, right?" Stiles shook the strap of the empty backpack he carried in emphasis. "Since you weren't actually there for this _stupid_ ritual last night, you can't tell me what was or wasn't used, so don't blame me if I grab a bunch of useless crap."

Scott barely refrained from rolling his eyes. For the last fifteen minutes, Stiles had done nothing but grumble unhappy comments about the Derek-Lydia situation. If this was his reaction now—when he knew only half of what was going on with those two—then Scott didn't want to hear the things that would fly out of his best friend's mouth when the full truth finally came out about whatever _was_ happening between the alpha and the Queen Bee.

And Stiles would find out, there was no avoiding that, Scott was sure—not with Stiles' insistence on helping in any way needed to protect Lydia. Scott shook his head at his predicament, but remained silent for a while as they got closer to the Hale house. Not simply because he was thinking, but because he was trying to listen for any sounds, trying to focus on scents, anything that indicated Peter might be lurking about.

Though, Stiles' actions brought another question to the young wolf's mind. Did Stiles' determination about aiding them, and his constant involvement with the pack and its members, make him pack, too? Sure, Derek told him Stiles and Allison were _his _pack, but did that even count, now that Scott had accepted Derek's leadership?

"Unbelievable, ya know, some day you're gonna come to me for help, and I'm just gonna go, 'no!' 'Cause you know what? I'm just a human, you shouldn't _need_ me to bail your werewolf butt out of messes—anyone's werewolf butt, for that matter."

Scott halted, pivoting on a heel to face his friend.

Stiles stopped short, reflexively flinching away from the pup. It wouldn't be the first time he'd inadvertently pushed Scott's buttons about the _ohh, I'm a big scary wolf-monster, now_ issue.

"I can't hear if Peter's around if you don't _shut up_, okay!" Scott instantly felt bad for snapping, so he inhaled deeply, letting out a long sigh, and continued in a calmer tone, "Look, Lydia didn't really map this part out for me. So, yes, just grab whatever's there, alright? That's the plan."

Stiles brown eyes rolled in exasperation. "You mean this is _your _plan. No wonder it sucks."

"Hey," Scott whispered, frowning, "that's not fair. I've come up with some good plans."

"True, but those were, like, textbook examples of the expression 'few and far between', and I'd like to think they were the result of years of hanging out with me finally rubbing off on you."

"Alright, fine, whatever," Scott hissed the words, holding up his hands in mock-surrender. "Just please, be quiet now, okay?"

Blinking rapidly, Stiles nodded mutely, waiting—not at all patiently—while Scott listened, and sniffed at the air.

After only a few moments, Scott's ears twitched at a sound. Footsteps . . . he instinctively matched the gait to Peter. He opened his mouth, and immediately snapped it shut, again. If he could pick up on Peter's footsteps, then Peter would be able to hear him speak.

He turned to face Stiles, pointed at himself and then toward the direction of Peter's movement. After receiving a silent nod from Stiles in reply, he gestured emphatically, directing the boy to go around the house, to the back door. Again Stiles nodded, but held back, waiting for Scott to start off, purposefully making a disproportionate amount of noise for his movements.

His clumsy motions were so effective, he barely heard the sound of Stiles heading around the far side of the charred structure. By the time he was close enough to pick up Peter's scent, the path of the footsteps had changed direction—heading straight for him.

"Scott," he heard Peter's voice before the older wolf actually stepped into his line of sight. "What are you doing back here? You know, without your pack. Well," Peter shrugged lazily, "_our _pack."

The words knocked Scott for a loop. Frowning, he shook his head. "We're _not_ pack."

Peter _tsk'ed_, holding up a finger. "On the contrary, I find myself walking and breathing . . . living again, because of Derek and Lydia; his power, her immunity. They are responsible for my very existence, and everything I've done since returning has been to help my nephew."

The pup hated to think on it, but Peter was right. Sure, that ritual hadn't exactly been problem free, but it hadn't truly hurt the participants, either. He hadn't done anything harmful to anyone since coming back from the dead. . . . Not yet, anyway.

And he didn't for one second believe that Peter didn't have some ulterior motive for his seeming helpfulness.

"Does Derek realize you're pack?" For the moment, Scott completely forgot that he was only here to distract Peter.

"Of course not," Peter said with a quick, mirthless little grin. "Or don't you remember that whole scuffle this morning?"

"When Lydia asked, why didn't you—"

"Because those two have enough to process at the moment, Scott."

Scott's brow furrowed, his jaw going askew as he thought the situation over. "Are you going to tell them?"

"No, and neither are you," Peter murmured, casually clasping his hands in front of him. "I mean to protect Derek, and the surest way to do that is to keep her close to him. If he thinks he has to protect her from me, then the result is the same."

"Why are you telling me all this?" The boy was very confused—wasn't Peter Hale usually sneakier, and more guarded?

"I have no reason to hide it, at least not from you. You, with your penchant for always helping. It seemed easier to tell you the truth, than risk you Scott McCall'ing your way into everything and screwing it up."

"So this whole thing with you and Lydia was a lie?" Now he was purposefully stalling. Stiles had to have the laptop by now, but he wanted to give him time to make it back to the Jeep—or at least be well on his way to it—but he couldn't deny that he was curious about Peter's actions.

"Hmm? Oh, no," the former alpha drew closer, folding his arms across his chest as he inhaled deeply. "I am absolutely intrigued by the girl, and . . . I can't promise that's not going to become a problem at some point. But, as I've explained to our dear alpha, protecting _him_ protects me. With so much uncertainty at the moment, self-preservation takes precedence."

Scott forced a small, angry gulp down his throat; he did not like where this was going. "And after that?"

Peter dropped his gaze, his smile this time genuine, albeit it tiny. "Scott, I'm a werewolf. Much of what I do, of what I've done, has been driven by instinct of one type or another. I can't _guarantee _I won't act on them at some point."

Yes, this was definitely an uncomfortable train of thought to jump on, Scott realized, wishing he'd stopped his questions sooner. The last thing he wanted to think about was Peter acting on _instincts_ he had about Lydia. The boy repressed a shudder.

Seeming suddenly bored, Peter gave another shrug. "Make sure Stiles take the incense. Derek might not need it, but Lydia will."

Dark eyes blinking rapidly, Scott's spine immediately went pin-straight. "What'd you mean?"

The older wolf leveled a look at Scott. "Please. When are you going to realize that I'm almost always one step ahead of you?"

Scott forced another gulp, briefly wondering if Peter was going to turn and go for Stiles any second. "How did you know?"

"Because Lydia's as smart as I am," he explained smoothly, simply, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "If she were a little more devious and underhanded, she might have realized I'd figure out what she was planning. That is the unique advantage of taking up residence in someone's head. I've seen how she thinks, firsthand."

He paused, holding up a finger. Their canine hearing easily picked up the sounds of Stiles bumbling his way out of the back of the house. "I believe you need to go."

Frowning darkly, Scott's eyes flared yellow for effect. "I still don't trust you."

"That's good, Scott," Peter reassured him, his tone sincere. "Protect your alpha, because just like I can't promise to stay away from Lydia for long . . . I can't promise that I won't do something in the future—when this is all said and done—to harm Derek."

With a dreadful, searing fury churning in the pit of his stomach—wondering if going after Lydia _was_ what would harm Derek—Scott growled, his wolf edged out of him for a moment, making him fight to suppress a sudden thirst for blood and violence. "Stay away from them."

"You can't make me," Peter said, his words slow and deliberate. "We're pack . . . family, remember?"

Unleashing a second, much more furious growl, Scott turned away, starting after Stiles' retreating footsteps.

"Oh, and one more thing."

Scott's shoulders hunched, his hackles raised as the former alpha called after him. He halted, but didn't turn around.

"I'd keep our little conversation private, if I were you."

"Why?" The pup turned his head, but didn't actually look back.

"Because if they realize that I've confided in you, that I simply let you take everything, they'll be suspicious. They won't trust you, or the ritual, anymore, and they'll leave themselves open, and unprotected."

Scott snarled, but simply faced forward again and took off toward the Jeep, his anger fueling his rushed pace. Dammit, Peter was right. He couldn't even tell Stiles. They'd all be wary of anything Peter-oriented. He had to tell them, though. They needed to know they were all tied to Peter Hale, but . . . he would wait. Let them do the ritual, first, protect themselves, and then he would tell them.

Even if they all hated him for it, at least they'd be safe. For the moment, anyway.

* * *

"Do we really need all this?" Derek asked doubtfully, his eyebrows raised as he looked at the overflowing shopping baskets Lydia was making him carry.

He already had his duffel bag slung around one shoulder, and her ridiculously girly overnight bag around the other. He couldn't help wondering if she was consciously taking advantage of his inhuman strength. Sure, this was hardly a super-human load of weight, but he imagined a human male would be griping about muscle strain by now.

Hazel eyes rolled as the girl stuffed in another bag of fresh fruits. "The pantry is filled with, like, canned and dry stuff, sure, but since no one will be there 'til the summer, there's nothing in the fridge."

He shrugged mutely; that made sense. He just didn't like following her around a grocery store in the middle of nowhere. They were too exposed; how did they know someone dangerous didn't lurk outside in the parking lot at this very second?

And the looks the store employees kept tossing them didn't help his discomfort. As though everyone thought they were some young couple preparing for a weekend rendezvous—he could smell the direction of their thinking each time he passed one of them.

"Fine," he grumbled, keeping his voice low so they wouldn't be overheard and give any potential listeners the wrong idea. Well, anymore wrong than what they already thought, "But we should hurry. We shouldn't stay out in the open."

"You really think we were followed?" She looked up at him over her shoulder.

Hell, she might as well just come out and call him stupid to his face. Derek repressed a growl, simply frowning at her. "No, but that doesn't mean it's not possible."

"Alright," she said with a small sigh, turning down another aisle. "We're almost done, just a few more things."

Derek only nodded, watching disinterestedly over her shoulder. _Disinterestedly_, until she grabbed a box of gauze and some sterile bandages.

That was when he understood . . . . God, he was a moron. Why hadn't he realized sooner? After Lydia placed the items in one of the baskets, she went on to comparing tubes of antibiotic ointment.

"Lydia . . . ."

She shrugged, deciding on one and tossing it in. "Well, it's not like there isn't a first aid kit there, but I don't know how stocked it is."

Scowling, Derek set the baskets down and grabbed her wrist, turning her toward him.

"Hey—!"

Ignoring her protest, he yanked her sleeve up to her elbow, revealing a red-blotched bandage along her forearm. He _was_ a moron. He hadn't noticed the scent of her blood, because he'd been with her all day, it had blended with her natural scent, but now that he was aware of the open wound, he couldn't ignore it.

The flash of anger across his face scared her. She tried to pull out of his grasp, but he wouldn't let go.

"What?" She finally demanded, irritated. "It's not like it was going to go away." Lydia dropped her voice to a whisper, "I can't heal like you do."

"Yeah, I know. I just . . . wasn't thinking," he said quietly, his gaze roving aimlessly. "You can't really want to do this again."

"I have another arm that's perfectly wound free."

"You don't _have _to do this again," he clarified. "I told you, we'll think of something else."

"We don't have anything else," she hissed, her tone vehement. "And this is my decision."

Derek bared his teeth, his voice sliding out in a barely audible thread of sound. "Why are you so stubborn?"

Those enormous hazel eyes blinked up at him. "Because . . . ." She bit the inside of her lip, thinking back on everything she'd seen through his eyes since last night. "Because you're always trying so hard to protect everyone, but nobody ever tries to protect _you_."

He straightened up instantly, unaware of how closely they'd leaned toward each other during their hushed conversation.

Dropping her gaze from his, she tried again to tug out of his grasp. This time, he allowed her wrist to slip from his hand. She watched from the corner of her eye as he picked up the baskets while she fixed her sleeve, hiding her bandage.

"We're done, anyway" she said, forcing a chipper note into her words as she spun on a heel and headed for the register.

She plastered a smile on her face and kept it there as they were rung up, as they exited the store; even as they walked from the dark and desolate parking lot to her father's summer house. Derek was visibly wary, obviously on edge, the entire time, listening for any suspicious sound, searching for any incongruous scent. As they reached the wide, winding front steps, her phone went off.

Pausing, and finally allowing her smile to slip—good timing, finally, her cheeks were getting tired—she checked her phone. "It's Scott."

Derek waited quietly, determinedly looking everywhere but at her, as she answered the call and gave the pup walking directions from the bus stop to the house.

Sighing heavily, she ended the call and slid her phone back into her purse.

"Stiles is with him, huh?" Derek asked, one brow arching.

"Where else would he be?" She only gave another sigh as she climbed the steps, fishing out her keys.

That was just what they needed; Stiles, who everyone knew was infatuated with Lydia, to be present for their—unfortunately intimate-seeming—blood-sharing ritual. Like things weren't awkward enough, already.

But that wasn't the focus of Lydia's concern.

As she unlocked the door and keyed the disarm code into the alarm system, she found herself worrying over something much more troublesome. They were both still reeling from last night, still waiting for whatever memory might sneak up on them next.

She opened the door wide, stepping in before he entered. Lydia couldn't think about something as comparatively simple as Stiles having a meltdown. She closed and locked the door behind Derek, resetting the alarm and switching on the lights, as he rearranged the load in his arms, unceremoniously dropping both his duffel and her overnight bag to the floor.

She silently led the way to the kitchen, watching him as he set the bags from the grocery store on the table in the breakfast nook. This was it, she was really alone in this big, empty house with Derek Hale.

Lydia _wanted_ to think on other things, wanted to focus on something simpler, anything that might be easier to deal with. But how could she when a little voice in the back of her mind kept asking that if she and Derek had become so easily entrenched in each other's lives—and minds—after doing the ritual the first time . . . .

Then what would things be like after going through it _again?_


	16. Misinterpretation

Okay, whoever has not yet seen the Season 3 trailer NEEDS to watch it—check the MTV website. Like now. Seriously, the fic will still be here when you get back.

**Chapter Sixteen**

Misinterpretation

Growling under his breath, Derek folded the pillow around his head, clamping it tight over his ears, but it proved no use. He could still hear her. Though her room was at the exact opposite end of the long corridor, he could hear the noise of her breathing in her sleep. And whatever she was dreaming about couldn't be very pleasant from the sounds she made.

Well, that wasn't entirely true—it could be pleasant, but he refused to consider that possibility.

Grumbling to himself, he climbed out of the guest bed and paced the room, tired, grumpy, and wondering if he should have opted for sleeping in the basement, instead. He was being ridiculous. He simply wasn't used to it, that was all—being in a confined space with someone who wasn't one of his wolves for a prolonged period of time.

If only Scott and Stiles would get here already. Sure it was a long bus ride, but geez—at least their goofy and whiny presence might ease some of the tension

Or it could make it worse.

Halting, he frowned darkly as he rubbed his hand along his jaw—the texture of stubble rough beneath his fingertips. He just needed to get used to her, that was all. And he would, she was pack now, after all. He simply hadn't been in a pack with human members for so long, and—

Lydia's scream sliced the air.

Hackles raised, Derek bolted from the room before he could give the action a second thought.

* * *

She wasn't certain where, exactly, she was, only that she seemed to be somewhere behind Derek as she watched the events unfold once more. The face in the mirror staring back at them wasn't the Derek Hale she knew, though. So young, so innocent-looking. He couldn't be more than sixteen.

And that girl—no, that _woman_—wanted him. Kate Argent, a beautiful college student, in her early twenties who probably could've had any man she wanted, but she wanted _him_.

Lydia could hear a bizarre echo—a hindsight thought from Derek that he should've realized such a thing was too good to be true, but he was young. He was _stupid_.

As if burning his family to death wasn't enough, she just _had_ to come back to Beacon Hills and try to kill him. Twice. But that had been overkill, hadn't it? Chained beneath his own house—the one she'd set fire to, the one that once held so much life—as she tortured him . . . she tried to regale him with reminders of their past.

But when she touched him, when she ran her tongue along his abdomen his skin crawled. Revulsion and rage mingled as he growled and snapped at her. But some of that rage was leveled at himself, not giving him the added dose of strength he needed to break his bonds.

How he would have _loved _to have freed himself and tear her throat out with his teeth.

She killed his family . . . mocked him with his guilt.

Suddenly Lydia found herself whisked back to the Hale property. She stood beside Laura and Derek, horror-stricken as they watched the firefighters struggling to put out the flames. Derek felt sick, and raw.

They hadn't even known anything was wrong—the school had not yet been alerted to the emergency—until Laura collapsed, in what many thought to be some type of panic attack. They didn't know her harsh, shortened breaths were from her attempt to control the power coursing through her, or that her eyes were so tightly shut so no one would see them flare crimson. It could only mean their mother was dead. She didn't know how, only that it had not been at the hands of another werewolf.

There was nothing she could do, though, until the school was called—if she simply ran out of class, grabbed Derek and left, that would be suspicious. Their family had cautioned them never to act in a way that would draw unnecessary attention.

So she explained to Derek in a whisper what had happened to her as they were escorted to the boundary of their property.

Laura tried to pull him in for a hug, to shield Derek's eyes as they carried Uncle Peter out and laid his still body on a stretcher. His face was marred, his clothes all but burned away. They were convinced the pathetic moaning whines he uttered might be the last sounds the man would ever make.

But Derek refused. He didn't push her away, but he wouldn't let her pull him into her arms, either. Sniffling hard, Laura only nodded silently, resting her head on her brother's shoulder and securing one arm around his neck, whether he liked it or not.

He barely felt her touch. He didn't want her to soothe him. This was his fault. They were bringing out body bags—his family's bodies in black bags, like they were nothing, anymore, faceless and nameless—and some official stood before them, prattling and attempting to offer words of comfort, but Derek couldn't hear him.

He was responsible. He was _just_ as responsible as Kate Argent; just as responsible as if he struck the match himself. The pain in his chest made it hard to breath, he had to force himself to inhale, remind himself to exhale . . . .

If he had a choice, he'd have stopped right then and there, and died with the others. But his wolf wouldn't let him. His loyalty to his sister—his alpha, the only pack mate he had left—wouldn't let him.

So he simply stood and stared. He hated himself. No matter what came after, he would never be able to forgive himself for this one act of trusting the wrong person. That was why he trusted no one anymore.

The weight of his burdens crushed her chest. How did he live like this? The pain of guilt, of self-loathing, of so much anger he didn't know what to do with it, of fear that if anyone knew about his relationship with Kate—that evil, manipulative bitch who broke his heart and crushed the lives of his loved ones under her heel—they'd blame him, pressed down on him every single day for over six years.

It was unbearable . . . . How could he breathe under this, let alone get out of bed and face the world every day? It was suffocating.

_She_ was suffocating.

Lydia shot up in bed, still half-asleep, forgetting where she was; the pain, and anger, the fear and guilt tore into her. She sucked in a sharp breath, unable to stop herself from screaming in agony to let it all out.

* * *

Derek came barreling through the door before the sound even died on her lips.

She sat up in bed, shrieking, her eyes squeezed shut. Here, he'd thought someone had snuck in and tried to grab her while he'd been griping to himself about . . . whatever the hell he'd been griping about, he couldn't even remember, now. He could see the tears on her cheeks, could smell them in the air—salt water, mixed with the blood from the wound on her arm.

_Why_ did he have to keep dealing with a crying Lydia Martin? He sat on the edge of the bed, uncertain as he placed his hands on her shoulders.

She jumped, choking out another, albeit it shorter, scream as she tried to pull out of his grasp. She started babbling incoherently—some nonsense about guilt and pain—as her delicate fingers scrabbled at his hands.

Inhaling deeply, Derek poured a bit of power into his voice as he growled, "Lydia!"

Hazel eyes snapped open and she forced out a quick, startled breath. Her gaze searched his face as the events of the past few days came rushing back to her, as his memories, still fresh in her mind, caved in on her again.

Before she could stop herself, she slipped her arms around him, holding him tight as she burrowed her face against the hollow of his shoulder, sobbing loudly.

Derek just . . . froze. Angry, standoffish, alpha werewolf Derek Hale did not move a muscle, his hands still in the air from where he held her shoulders only a second before.

God, the girl was shaking like a leaf.

Scowling at his predicament, he simply allowed his arms to drop around her in a loose hug. He ignored that her cheek pressed against him, and her breath ghosting over his skin, bothered him.

"I saw it! I . . . saw it again. I don't—I don't understand how anyone could do that!"

His gaze aimlessly roved the moonlit-darkness of the room as he tried to figure out what she was talking about. "Lydia? Wha—"

"I was there, like I was standing right next to you . . ." she hiccupped, pausing to sniffle.

"Wait, wait," he slid his hands up to grasp her shoulders once more and pulled her away enough to look into her face. "You were _where_?"

Suddenly fearful that she was angering him, her voice dropped to a hollow whisper. "Y-your house. The day of the fire, when they . . . found Peter. I saw it. I . . . _felt_ it."

He didn't know what to do, or what to say. Derek simply stared at her mutely for a long, strained moment.

He wasn't angry, she realized, but she didn't know what to make of his lack of expression, either. She slipped out of his grasp, holding to him again—mostly because she didn't know what else to do—as she described everything she'd seen and felt.

And he, stoic, scowling, alpha werewolf, crumbled.

He knew she'd seen it before, but she hadn't described it. He allowed himself to easily believe that whatever she'd witnessed was just a pale shadow of what he'd really experienced, of the emotions that tore into him every damned day.

Lydia felt a tiny bit better after she told him everything, felt a little less burdened, but _only_ a little.

But then Derek's posture changed. His arms fell around her again and he seemed to buckle, letting out a single, sharp and shuddering breath as his shoulders drooped and he folded around her.

She felt tiny, and empty and hollow, a long time slinking past as they simply sat there, clinging to one another. They were so very quiet that she could hear the crickets outside.

After she'd calmed, after her tears had dried and she was breathing normally again, and he still hadn't moved—hadn't made a sound, she wouldn't even know he was breathing if he wasn't practically on top of her—when she realized . . . . That was skin beneath her cheek. Bare skin. Derek Hale's _bare_ skin.

_Oh . . . dear_.

"Derek," she demanded, pulling back instantly.

Her abrupt change snapped Derek out of his reverie—if he didn't know any better, he'd have sworn he'd been falling asleep for a moment, there. He sat bolt upright, simply blinking at her.

"You're not wearing a shirt. Why aren't you wearing a shirt?"

His face fell. How did the girl only now notice this? And why did it even matter? If most people who spent time around him were to be believed, he spent equal time shirtless as he did shirt_ed_.

But then again, realization dawned slowly, Lydia and he hadn't been all that close until the last few days, so she'd never been around him when he'd been anything less than fully clothed.

He held his hands up in mock surrender as he explained slowly, "I _was_ trying to sleep in the guest room you gave me. Just wanted to be comfortable, and then you screamed so loud, I thought someone was trying to kill you."

"Oh," was all she could say. After a moment of blinking up at him, she couldn't help cracking a tiny grin before giving into laughing at herself. Lydia Martin was the icy Queen Bitch, she was not supposed to bat an eye at something as simple as a shirtless man.

No matter how good that man looked shirtless.

For a dreadful, flickering moment, she found herself jealous of that dead, but still contemptible, bitch Kate Argent. Those recollections that rolled through her mind . . . Kate's tongue sliding along Derek's skin . . . .

Against her better judgment—as seemed so many things when she was around Derek—she wondered just what his skin tasted like.

He didn't need to see the flare of color in her cheeks to know that this situation had just gotten a hell of a lot more complicated. It was there in her scent . . . that faint trickle of invitation, of arousal, winding off of her.

She didn't even realize she was doing it. Thank God she _couldn't_ become a werewolf, couldn't understand exactly what she was doing. He had no doubt she'd find ways to manipulate her scent—it was a simple as making herself think of something that would produce the affect she wanted—she'd be a nightmare.

She was aware, now, of pheromones, and the embarrassment in her eyes said she understood completely that he knew the direction of her thoughts, no matter how momentary. But human understanding was different by far from the instinctive comprehension and response of a werewolf.

"I'm . . . sorry," she said, dropping her gaze to the floor.

"No, it's—"

"Just the memories of you and that . . . _Kate _. . . ."

He almost laughed at the way she practically growled that bitch's name. "I understand, Lydia, you don't have to—"

"They were just really vivid, and I—"

Her second apology was cut short by the ring of the doorbell.

The sudden wave of relief that washed over them both was nearly tangible. "That must be—"

"Scott and Stiles," he finished for her. But . . . there was _still_ the chance that it wasn't who they were expecting.

She climbed out from beneath her quilt—he felt unreasonably relieved that she was wearing a full set of pink flannel pajamas—but he raised a hand, halting her, as he rose from the bed. "Let me go."

She opened her mouth to argue, to tell him he was being silly, but she supposed there was no harm in caution. "I'll let you go first," she insisted, scurrying off the bed to follow him.

"Lydia," he said in a low, growling whisper, "It could be someone _else_."

"So?" She whispered back, shaking her head at him as they descended the staircase. "That doesn't mean you have to go alone, right? I mean, isn't that the sort of thing packs are for?"

Scowling, he shook his head as well. There was really no arguing with the girl, was there?

He paused a few feet from the door, the scents dampened by all closer, unfamiliar smells crowding him. He told himself it had nothing to do with Lydia's suddenly very distracting scent so close behind him overpowering any others.

Some of the tension went out of his shoulders as he picked up the familiar scents of Stiles and the pup wafting in from the front porch.

He nodded and Lydia immediately went to disarming the security system. Derek unlocked the door and threw it open, finding it honestly comical when Stiles jumped and assumed some ridiculous, cartoony defense stance.

The alpha schooled his features, lowering his gaze just long enough to assume his customary scowl. He stepped aside to let them enter as Lydia moved up behind him.

Scott and Stiles saw the same thing, at the same time. Derek Hale shirtless and looking exhausted, Lydia Martin behind him in her pajamas. She appeared innocent enough, except that her usually sleek and tame hair was mussed . . . _very _mussed.

It could be from sleep, Scott thought to himself, trying to ignore it. He didn't want to give Stiles anymore of an aneurysm than the boy was likely about to have, anyway. But then, as he walked into the house and passed Derek and Lydia . . . he caught the one thing Stiles _couldn't_.

Their scents were all over each other.

Before Scott could stop himself, the accusatory words were tumbling out from between his lips, "What did you two do this time?"


	17. Explanations

I know, I know, I suck. _ I at least wanted to get them through the second ritual before the S3 premiere, but it seemed every time I wanted to update this story, RL got in the way. *sigh* But, YAY, S3 premiere tonight! YAAAAAAY! I may need the occasional kick from you guys to keep the fic going as the season continues and the canon starts to diverge from the leave-off point at the end of season 2, but I'd really like to keep this story going to the end. 3

* * *

Sorry for the short chapter, but it accomplishes what it needs to.

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen**

Explanations

Derek and Lydia exchanged a glance—followed by giving each other a quick once-over—before they said, in irritated unison, "It's not what it looks like."

Derek was simply trying to avoid the headache Scott and Stiles were about to give him, while Lydia frowned in disdain. They had no right to an explanation from her; whatever had or hadn't just happened wasn't any of their business.

Stiles fumbled for something to say, gesturing emphatically with one hand. "Well, what, uh, what do _you_ think we think it looks like?"

Lydia reset the alarm before shrugging as she turned on a heel and started for the staircase. "I had a bad dream and he comforted me, is what it looks like, 'cause that's what happened," she explained over her shoulder.

"Comforted? Right, um," Stiles entire face turned red in a mix of embarrassment and anger. He crinkled the bridge of his nose as he asked, "Comforted how?"

With an exasperated shake of her head, she looked back at them, her bored gaze flicking from Scott to Stiles and back again. "We hugged, okay?"

Scott and Stiles, for their part, turned wide eyes on Derek—who, for all their experience dealing with him, did not seem to have the word _hug_ in his vocabulary—before sharing a look of disbelief as they both, _clearly_, restrained themselves from laughing.

"Oh, grow up." She turned away again, climbing the stairs. "Pick your own rooms, I'm going back to sleep."

Three sets of male eyes watched her ascend the staircase. When she vanished into the darkness of the second floor corridor, they immediately turned back around.

"A hug?" Scott echoed the word, his voice rising so high it nearly cracked.

"You . . . hugging. Isn't that like a grizzly bear giving cuddles?" Stiles couldn't help his snark—he wanted, and needed, this to be as innocent as Lydia made it sound. But their immediate defensiveness, and Scott's accusatory tone when they'd entered the house, made _innocent _seem a term that was completely foreign to their situation.

Derek's expression shut down instantly. "She's dealing with something traumatic." For a moment, he'd considered throwing out the fact that it was more that _she'd _hugged him, but that felt like even more of a cop out than what Scott pulled that morning when he'd pushed all of the blame on Lydia about that stupid kiss.

The alpha repressed the momentary, inexplicable urge to growl.

Scott didn't look like he was buying that skimpy, explanation, but Derek wasn't really sure he cared. There was too much that the pup wouldn't be able to wrap his head around, too much that couldn't simply be covered by words. They would just have to deal with not knowing the whole story.

His features hardened into a scowl as he said slowly, "Nothing happened." Without waiting for a response, he turned and headed for the stairs as well.

Scott could hear Lydia in her room, muttering angrily to herself as she punched her pillow a few times, as Derek plodded across the floor—no doubt the heaviness of his steps was deliberate, so his direction was unmistakable—and loudly slammed a door at the opposite end of the corridor from her.

Stiles walked to the coffee table and shrugged off his backpack. "Was he telling the truth?" he asked as he carefully unloaded everything he'd collected from the Hale house, refusing to look up from his task.

"Yeah," Scott said, his tone quiet as he waited for Stiles to finish emptying his bag.

The young wolf felt strangely hollow. Derek and Lydia were telling the truth—he _knew _they were—and yet, he was overcome by the most bizarre sensation when he had answered Stiles just now.

As though somehow, he'd told a lie.

* * *

The entire next day was . . . _tense_. Lydia spent a lot of time pouring over the ritual on Peter's laptop and writing specific words and instructions down on a notepad for Scott and Stiles to follow at sunset. Scott spent a long while rehashing for Stiles what he'd witnessed of the ritual the first time around, trying his best to prepare his friend for what he was going to see. Derek was outside nearly the entire day, familiarizing himself with the forested grounds surrounding the house, getting accustomed to the scents and sounds of their temporary home.

Somehow, though, the alpha seemed to know to break from his nature-walks—as Stiles jokingly referred to it—whenever a meal had been prepared. Scott could only assume that no matter how far away a werewolf was, an empty stomach obviously caused any non-food-related scent to drop off into the background.

After his dinner break—which had intentionally been set for an hour before sunset, allowing everyone time to digest and prepare for the ritual—Derek grabbed Scott by the back of his shirt and dragged him outside.

"What the hell," was all the pup managed before Derek shot him a look that said the reason shouldn't have to be explained.

"Stiles needs to mark the boundary. If this goes anything like the first ritual, Lydia and I will be just about useless. You're going to need watch Stiles' ass while he puts down the mountain ash, and you're going to do a piss-poor job of protecting him if you're tripping over tree roots and jumping at owl cries. You need to walk the area at least once to get familiar with it."

Derek started across the trimmed lawn, toward the wilderness. Scott didn't immediately fall into step behind him, he turned back to look at the pup, nodding into the tree-line.

A moment passed before Scott shook his head and loped up to keep pace beside his alpha. "If walking the boundary _once_ is enough to familiarize yourself with it, what have you been doing out here all day?"

"Not being _in_ that house," Derek explained simply, setting his jaw immediately after the words tumbled out.

Scott didn't need to glance at the older wolf's face to know that was all the answer he was going to get.

* * *

"So nothing, really?"

Lydia refrained from sighing and rolling her eyes—she didn't imagine the gesture would accomplish anything more than it had the last three times. "I can't tell you when I saw, Stiles." She'd explained to him about the very irritating unforeseen side-effect of the ritual, hoping that if he understood some of what was happening, he would be more of a help than a whiny, scorned hindrance.

But apparently, simply stating that she'd witnessed the tragedy that had befallen the Hales wasn't enough for him. He had to bug her for details. True that he seemed more interested in details surrounding last night's _hug_ than anything else, nagging questions were still an intrusion.

Seeing Derek's memories didn't make his stories hers to share, why couldn't Stiles just get that and leave her alone about it?

"Fine," Stiles finally said, looking over the notepad once more as she continued setting the candles on the coffee table—since she'd ended up collapsing last time, she figured starting out the ritual seated this time would save her a dramatic spill, at the very least.

"Just . . . ." He bit his lip, looking up from the list as he tried to work up the words. "You get that I'm worried about you, right? That's why I'm being such a pain in the ass?"

Pausing, she glanced up from the table, meeting his gaze briefly as she nodded. "I know, but you should understand why this is important to me."

"No, Lydia, I don't understand." Stiles' brow furrowed as he tried—again—to make some sense of the situation they were in.

She set the mortar in the center and began lighting the candles. How could he be so obtuse? He was the only other regular human—not a hunter, not some type of advisor, just _regular_—how could he not get it? But then perhaps it was because he'd been included in all this from the beginning.

"How often do _I_ get to protect anyone?"

Stiles face fell and his heart seemed to go still in his chest for a moment. Crap, he really did love this girl.

And he was beginning to think she really was never going to be his.

Oblivious to his realization, she turned her attention to the window, hazel eyes narrowing. "It's time. Go get them," she said simply, lighting the final candle as sunset began tinging the sky mottled shades of blood red and deep, pink-stained blue.


	18. Maybe

**I have another Derek-Lydia fic out now on both Ao3 & FF. net (with a heavy dose of Peter Hale-naughtiness) entitled "I Won't Tell." Those who can't wait for the 'good stuff' may want to give it a look. It's just started, so there's no obvious Dydia, yet. But, again, naughty Peter, so . . . . ;)**

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen**

Maybe

By the time Derek stepped into the house, the cloying mix of incense hung heavy in the air. Something in the atmosphere of the room felt . . . _different_. He couldn't quite put his finger on what that difference was, but he somehow knew it had little to do with Scott's and Stiles' presence. Stiles stared daggers at him, but what was new today?

Lydia sat on the floor beside the candle-laden coffee table. She didn't look up when he approached, quite obviously distracting herself with tiny details—pulling up the sleeve on her uninjured arm to the elbow, peeking into the mortar, repositioning the dagger on the table beside it, peeking into the mortar again.

Even with his sense of smell hindered, her fidgeting would have signaled her nervousness. Perhaps that was the difference? She wasn't the type to allow her insecurity to be so transparent.

No, this was her idea, and she'd been correct in that they didn't really have any other options. Even if she had second thoughts now, she wouldn't come forward with them.

She finally, did, bring those huge hazel eyes up to meet his and he merely furrowed his brow. He'd already given her several chances to change her mind, to back out of this insanity, and she'd refused each time. He had no reason to think now would be any different.

"Are you ready?" Scott asked, breaking into Derek's thoughts.

When he glanced over at the pup, he realized the words weren't directed at him, but at Lydia.

She nodded, picking up the mortar as she stood. The alpha took his place in front the table as she made a circle around the living room, carefully sprinkling the mountain ash along her way.

Returning to Derek's side, she set down the mortar, eyeing the blade as he picked up the dagger.

He set the tip of the blade to his forearm, but Lydia's hand covered his, stilling his movements. Looking up at her, he realized why she stopped him. It was _quiet_.

Green and hazel eyes rolled nearly in unison before the ritual's participants turned their heads to look at Scott and Stiles.

Scott gave a start and elbowed Stiles, who simply watched Derek and Lydia in something like morbid fascination.

"Oh, right." Clearing his throat, Stiles lifted the paper with the incantation, a bit difficult though it was to read in the dim, dappled candlelight from the other side of the room.

Only after he'd gone through a few repetitions of the chant did Lydia slide her hand from Derek's. The look on her face, however, cautioned him against starting just yet.

He watched as she sat on her knees and, nodding, followed suit. She was right, of course, he knew that. If this was anything like the first time, they'd both be a mess and the closer to the floor they were, the easier any potential breakdowns would be on her.

He sliced into his forearm, turned the blade and set the hilt into her waiting hand.

* * *

Lydia found it easy to forget that they weren't alone, just as it had been easy to forget two nights ago, when they'd done this the first time around. Biting her lip, she drew the blade across her skin, still surprised at the bizarre, cold dragging sensation that cutting flesh became when the sense of pain was taken away.

She put the blade on the table and gave Derek her arm, lightly clamping the fingers of her free hand around his elbow and automatically lowering her lips to the wound as she felt him lift her arm.

She shuddered a little at the first pull of his mouth at the wound. Oh, God, this was _not_ like the first ritual, she realized dully, her eyes drifting closed as she ran the tip of her tongue along his torn skin. Maybe it was their recent closeness, their shared memories . . . or even her own, silly daydream yesterday.

Holy hell, was it only yesterday?

But this was different . . . . The feel of his lips around the cut, of his mouth pulling on her gently sent tiny sparks through her. She just barely kept herself from squirming, what with the way she felt the stroking of his tongue in places _other_ than at the cut on her arm.

Even worse, she felt him tremble against her mouth. Derek Hale, alpha werewolf trembled, just a little, just a tiny little bit, so she was sure it wasn't visible. But she was also sure the fine tremor that shook his muscles just now had nothing to do with innocent things, like cold or fear.

* * *

He needed to pull away. He knew, they were in the middle of something and . . . they needed to back up, to stop lapping at each other's skin and blood like this, and . . . do something. Right?

His thoughts were fuzzy, and her lips felt warm and soft against him. This close to her now, he could smell it. Even with the incense in the air, even with her skin beneath his mouth and her blood on his tongue, the sudden, unmistakable scent of desire curled off her.

He didn't want to pay attention to the fact that to continue would be wrong. His body wanted to react to the feel of her mouth on his skin, but he restrained himself—just barely. This was Lydia Martin, and nothing like what her scent hinted at could happen between them.

Though, he found it increasingly difficult to remember why.

* * *

Scott realized after a strange, delayed moment of not really thinking about anything—maybe that was the incense fogging his senses—that they were carrying on perhaps a little _too_ long.

And the way Lydia was shifting in place he thought maybe . . . maybe he and Stiles should make their exit as quickly as possible. He glanced over at Stiles to see that his best friend remained purposefully oblivious to the rest of the world—the page with the incantation held up in front of his eyes, blocking his view of Derek and Lydia.

The young wolf took a step toward the boundary of the circle. "Okay, guys, I think that's enough."

They didn't pull away. In fact, Lydia appeared to have just given a minute shake of her head and . . . . Had Derek just growled under his breath?

Scott blinked, glancing over his shoulder at Stiles, who had stopped chanting, finally looking up from the page in his hand. But he avoided the two occupying the circle, his gaze looking on Scott's.

Nope, clearly it wasn't Scott's imagination. He'd told Derek and Lydia to stop what they were doing and Derek had _growled _at him.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

Whatever, they needed to stop so the ritual could progress, though Scott didn't look forward to the discussion he was going to have to sit them all down for when this was over.

If Derek didn't kill him for keeping quiet about Peter's involvement, Stiles just might.

"Stop!"

* * *

Lydia was the first to pull back, licking her lips, her huge eyes half-closed, giving her a dazed, sleepy expression. She delicately cupped Derek's chin with her free hand, pushing his jaw back as she tried to tug her arm from his grasp.

* * *

He just barely refrained from growling as she gently forced him away. If not for the sound of her breath—soft and shallow, letting Derek know that he wasn't alone in his reluctance—and that damned scent winding off her, he might have simply continued.

That was what his inner wolf pushed him to do, anyway. Her blood had made him tipsy again, and it was difficult to argue with his primal instincts in this condition.

He also had the most distinct sense that if . . . if they were alone, if nothing more was expected of them, she wouldn't be pushing him away, which certainly wasn't helpful.

"Derek!" Scott shouted, trying to snap the alpha back into the moment.

If only Scott understood that it hadn't been this hard to pull away the first time they'd done this—that this was somehow more intense, more intimate than they were expecting—maybe the pup would give him just a damn minute. He couldn't help himself from running the tip of his tongue along the length of the cut one final time before releasing her.

His wolf enjoyed the sound of her gasping as he'd given her that last, little, lick a bit too much.

* * *

They just sat there staring at each other. Just . . . _staring_! In the dark, with the candles, and the stupid incense smoke everywhere. And after they'd been . . . _ugh_! He couldn't even think on it.

Stiles grudgingly, noticed that the pair needed to be _actively_ reminded of what to do next. Hadn't they done this already? None of the steps seemed so difficult or intricate that they might be so easily forgotten.

"Hello? Blood and mountain ash, somebody move!"

Lydia blinked hard a few times, took Derek's arm in both of her hands and guided it over the mortar, kneading a few drops from the closing wound.

The alpha appeared to be in a daze as she relinquished her hold on him and began dripping her own blood into the mixture. He lifted his arm, poking at freshly healed skin with the forefinger of his other hand.

She then lifted the dish from the table and held it out toward the edge of the circle. When Stiles didn't move, she reminded in a light voice, "Stiles, _you_ can cross the ash."

_So can you_, he wanted to snap back. She could get up, and walk over here and leave stupid, broody, cool-haired Derek all alone, trapped inside the circle. But then . . . he'd heard how bizarre and difficult this had been on them the first time.

He wanted to be mad, and cranky, and sorry for himself, but realistically he knew he couldn't expect this to be any simpler for them now.

Even if it did look a little too much like they were actually enjoying themselves. Even if Derek looked drunk, when Stiles knew werewolves couldn't get drunk. Even if it looked like Lydia was making bedroom eyes, when Stiles knew she was probably just exhausted from putting herself through all this weirdness that was still so new to her.

Frowning and shaking his head, Stiles crossed the room and stepped into the circle. As he reached for the mortar, suddenly Derek's hand closed around his throat.

"Derek!" Scott hollered, stuck outside of the circle as the alpha dragged the boy close, growling under his breath.

"If anything goes wrong out there," Derek whispered, his tone venomous, "if something feels off, if someone you don't recognize comes anywhere near this house, fuck the damn ritual. You get her out of here."

Scott straightened instantly, surprised at their alpha's declaration. Derek's grip loosened and Stiles exchanged a glance with the pup.

"Of course," Stiles simply said, nodding emphatically as he finally took the mortar from Lydia's hand and retreated from the circle. As he headed to the door, he added over his shoulder—his voice low, and controlled so that Lydia wouldn't hear him but the wolves would, "You're not the only one she's important to."

* * *

The young wolf's jaw dropped for a second, his gaze touching on Derek and Lydia before he followed his best friend out the door. Derek's eyebrows lifted. His expression—still dazed, still like he was inebriated—showed a bit of surprise, as though he didn't realize _what_ his actions regarding Lydia said.

Scott caught up to Stiles, noting the tense set of the boy's shoulders. "Are you okay?"

Stiles didn't look up, didn't speak, merely nodded as he gestured for Scott to lead the way to where he was to begin marking the boundary.

* * *

Lydia sat, waiting for a new wash of painful memories to sweep through her, waiting to be torn apart by emotions that weren't her own, but . . . Nothing came. Minutes ticked by and still all that happened was that Derek became slowly less drunk-seeming.

"I think we're okay," she said, leaning to blow out the candles.

Nodding, Derek moved to help, reaching for the incense holders. Neither were prepared for the press of his skin against hers as his hand brushed past her bare forearm.

They each sank back into sitting positions.

Lydia saw herself in her house yesterday morning. She heard a deep growling voice rumbling in the back of her head, not words, really; impressions, vague and dark, about taking what he wanted.

This was what Derek had been thinking as he'd watched her walking up the stairs in her house? He'd been arguing with himself. He wanted her, but he shouldn't have her. The dark, angry growling didn't tell him he couldn't have her . . . it needled and nagged him about_ not_ taking her.

Lydia's breath left her in a rush as the thought crashed over her. Derek Hale _wanted_ her.

* * *

The touch, tiny, accidental, though it was, sent sparks through him. He had to close his eyes, to force himself to breathe for a moment.

He felt a pattering against his skin, distracting him from the moment, but . . . it wasn't real. No, this was . . . .

He was remembering the smell of peach soap? What the hell? He'd never use fruit-scented soap, but . . . Lydia did. There was a tingling touch at his scalp, like someone working shampoo into his hair. What? He realized these were Lydia's memories of yesterday morning. In her house, when she'd taken her shower.

Her hands slid downward, her fingers trailed over her skin and . . . .

And she'd thought of _him_.

He forced his eyes open, meeting her gaze almost instantly. She was right there, right in front of him. And now the incense did nothing to dampen the scent of arousal hanging in the air.

"Lydia," he murmured, his voice lifted in question.

She remained silent as she raised up on her knees and scooted closer to him.


End file.
